\ 


\  \ 


THE  ]  IBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

JAKES    J.   HC   BRIDE 


77. 


J   9 

/   y 7 


KIDDIES 


KIDDIES 


BY 

J.  J.  BELL 

AUTHOR  OF 
"WEE  MACGREEGOR,"  "JIM  CROW,"   "BOBBY,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


?  R 


TO 

MISS  BINKIE  BELL, 

WITH   LOVE 


712495 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.   HABAKKUK i 

II.   LITTLE  BOY 12 

III.  SOME  ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  AN  AUNT  31 

IV.  THE  GOOD  FAIRY 40 

V.  THE  ANSWER 51 

VI.   JOCK 62 

VII.   MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART 77 

VIII.   THE  LIMIT 94 

IX.  THE  GHOST    . 107 

X.   AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT      .     .     .     .  126 

XI.   DICKY  JOHNNY .  139 

XII.   SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES    .     .     .  167 

XIII.  THE  GNOME 188 

XIV.  FOR  A  GOOD  BOY 204 

XV.   MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR      .     .  229 

XVI.  THE  UGLY  UNCLE 249 

XVII.  THE  LITTLE  TYRANT                .     .     .  266 


KIDDIES 


HABAKKUK 

"PAW,"  said  the  boy,  across  the  table,  "d'ye  ken 
what  I'm  gaun  to  be,  when  I'm  a  man?" 

His  father  lowered  the  evening  paper  which  he 
had  been  reading  by  the  fireside.  "What  are  ye  gaun 
to  be,  Macgreegor?"  he  inquired,  with  an  interested 
smile. 

"I'm  gaun  to  be  a  plumber!" 

"I  thocht  ye  was  gaun  to  be  a  penter,  ma  mannie." 
Said  the  boy's  mother,  pausing  in  the  process  of  thread- 
ing a  needle:  "Ye'll  never  be  a  plumber,  nor  a  penter, 
nor  onything  else,  Macgreegor,  if  ye  dinna  pey  atten- 
tion to  yer  lessons.  Keep  yer  e'e  on  yer  book,  an' 
dinna  let  me  hear  ye  cheep  again  till  the  clock  strikes." 
Turning  to  her  husband :  "Ye  shouldna  encourage  him 
to  speak,  John,  when  he  should  be  learnin'  his  les- 
sons." 

"Aw,  the  wean's  fine,"  said  John  mildly.  "There's 
nae  harm  in  speakin'  aboot  what  he's  gaun  to  be, 
when  he's  a  man.  I  mind,  when  I  was  a  laddie  like 
him,  I » 

"Ye  dinna  need  to  learn  lessons  to  be  a  plumber," 
Macgregor  remarked,  incited,  doubtless,  by  his  father's 
partisanship. 

"Haud  yer  tongue!"  his  mother  commanded.  "Ye'll 
i 


2  KIDDIES 

never  get  on  at  onything  in  this  world  wi'oot  eddica- 
tion." 

"Deed,  ay,"  assented  Mr.  Robinson;  "yer  maw's 
richt  there,  Macgreegor.  If  ye  dinna  ken  hoo  mony 
beans  mak'  five " 

"I  ken  that  fine!     I  ken  what  six  times  nine  is!" 

"Dod,  ye  bate  me  there!"  laughed  John,  while  his 
wife  frowned,  and  said: 

"Ye  micht  keep  yer  eegnorance  to  yersel',  man.  .  .  . 
What's  six  times  nine,  Macgreegor?" 

"Forty-five." 

John  took  up  his  newspaper. 

"Aweel,"  said  Lizzie,  who  would  fain  have  checked 
the  figures  on  her  fingers.  "I  daursay  yer  richt,  but 
I  didna  think  ye  wud  ha'e  kent  it.  But  ye'll  need 
mair  nor  sums  to  get  ye  on  at  the  plumbin'  or  ony- 
thing else  ye  try.  Ye  maun  be  able  to  read  an'  write 
an'  spell " 

"I  can  spell  plenty  words,  maw.  I  can  spell  Habak- 
kuk!" 

"Ay:  efter  yer  Granpaw  Purdie  was  near  a  week 
learnin'  ye!" 

There  was  a  brief  pause  ere  Macgregor  inquired, 
"Can  you  spell  Habakkuk,  maw?" 

From  behind  his  paper  Mr.  Robinson  said,  a  trifle 
unsteadily:  "It'll  be  handy  to  be  able  to  spell  Habakkuk 
when  ye're  a  plumber,  Macgreegor,  for  ye  micht  get 
a  customer  o'  the  same  name,  an'  folk  wi'  fancy  names 
dinna  like  to  see  them  spelt  wrang." 

"I  thocht  a  Habakkuk  was  a  bird,  or  a  fish,"  said 
the  boy.  "What  wey " 

John  guffawed. 

"Whisht!"  cried  Lizzie,  "ye  should  think  shame  o' 
yerself,  makin'  fun  o'  a  name  that's  in  the  Bible,  John, 
an'  roarin'  and  laughin'  as  if  ye  wanted  to  wauken 
wee  Jeanie.  .  .  ,  Macgreegor,  if  ye  dinna  improve 


HABAKKUK  3 

at  yer  lessons,  ye'll  no'  get  bidin'  wi'  yer  Granpaw 
Purdie  at  the  New  Year." 

"I'm  no'  wantin'  to  bide  wi'  him  at  the  New  Year, 
when  Aunt  Purdie's  there.  I  wisht  Aunt  Purdie  wud 
break  her  leg  or " 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  ye  bad  laddie!  But  yer  Aunt 
Purdie'll  no'  be  there.  She's  gaun  to  a  hydropatho, 
or  some  sic  place,  wi'  some  o'  her  gran'  genteel  ac- 
quentances ' ' 

"She'll  be  gaun  to  veesit  the  King  next,"  observed 
Mr.  Robinson.  "It's  a  peety  I'm  no'  in  the  proveesion 
trade,  Lizzie " 

"What  wey  are  ye  no'  in  the  proveesion  trade,  paw?" 
asked  Magreegor. 

"Dinna  answer  him,  John,"  said  Lizzie,  "or  he'll 
never  get  his  lessons  done  the  nicht." 

"I'll  gang  to  Granpaw  Purdie's,"  said  her  son. 

"Ye'll  no'  gang  a  step  if  ye  dinna  learn  yer  lessons. 
Ha'e  ye  learnt  onything  the  nicht?" 

"I've  learnt  ma — ma  poetry.  What's  the  use  o' 
poetry  to  a  plumber?" 

John  checked  a  guffaw  in  time. 

"Everything's  o'  some  use,"  said  his  wife.  "Gi'e 
me  the  book,  an'  I'll  hear  ye  yer  poetry." 

"I  dinna  need  to  be  heard  it." 

"Gi'e  me  the  book!  .  .  .  Noo,  Macgreegor!" 

"I — I've  jist  to  say  the  first  verse." 

"Weel,  say  it!" 

"  'Not  a  drum  was  heard,'  "  mumbled  Macgregor. 

"I  canna  hear  ye." 

"  'Not  a  drum  was  heard,'  maw." 

"Weel,  what  else?" 

"  'Not  a — not  a  funeral  shot' " 

"Ye're  wrang! — John,  ye're  no'  to  tell  him!" 

"I  wisht  I  could!  A  nice  cheery  pome  for  a  wean, 
that!" 


4  KIDDIES 

"Come  awa',  Macgreegor.  What  comes  efter  'fun- 
eral'?" 

"I  meant  for  to  say  'note,'  maw." 

"Weel,  what  next?" 

"  'Not  a  soldier  .  .  .  hurried'  .  .  ." 

With  a  sigh  Mrs.  Robinson  passed  back  the  book. 
"Nae  wonder  ye're  aye  at  the  foot  o'  the  cless,"  she 
remarked  with  sad  severity. 

"Maybe  I  wudna  ha'e  been  foot  the  day,  if  Wullie 
Thomson  hadna  been  absent." 

"Tits!  Dinna  let  me  hear  ye  say  anither  word  till 
ye've  learnt  it." 

"I  wisht  I  had  ma  holidays,"  said  Macgregor,  glow- 
ering at  the  page.  "I  wisht  they  wud  get  measles  or 
something  in  the  schule,  an'  then  it  wud  be  closed.  I 
wisht " 

"Whisht!  I've  a  rale  guid  mind  to  gi'e  ye  lessons 
masel'  in  yer  holidays " 

"Yecouldna!" 

"Macgreegor!"  exclaimed  John,  with  some  sternness 
in  his  voice. 

"Poetry's  awfu'  ill  to  remember,"  said  the  boy. 

"Ma  laddie,  if  ye  canna  remember  a  wee  bit  poetry 
like  that,"  Lizzie  observed,  "I  wudna  like  to  trust  ye 
for  a  plumber.  Ye  wud  be  forgettin'  hauf  yer  tools, 
an'  puttin'  the  water  in  the  gas-pipes,  an*  the  gas  in 
the " 

"I  wudna !"  he  protested. 

"I  doobt  yer  maw's  richt,  Macgreegor,"  put  in  John 
over  his  paper.  "I've  heard  it  said  that  learnin'  poetry's 
a  gran'  exercise  for  the  mem'ry.  An'  a  plumber's  no' 
muckle  guid  wantin'  a  mem'ry,  though  I've  come  across 
some  wi'  terrible  sma'  yins — or  maybe  it  was  their  con- 
sciences that  was  sma'.  Onywey  yer  maw's  richt,  ma 
mannie,  so  jist  you  wire  into  yer  poetry " 


HABAKKUK  5 

Lizzie  beamed  upon  her  man.  "D'ye  hear  what  yer 
paw  says,  Macgreegor?" 

"A'  the  same,"  continued  John,  "if  I  was  yer  mais- 
ter,  I  wud  gi'e  ye  something  cheerier  nor  that  to  learn. 
It's  no'  the  thing  for  a  wean " 

"Aw,  whisht,  John,"  said  his  wife,  "or  ye'll  jist 
spile  a'  ye  said  afore.  .  .  .  Come  awa',  laddie;  see  hoo 
quick  ye  can  learn  it,  an'  ye'll  get  a  biled  egg  to  yer 
tea  the  morn's  nicht." 

"If  ye  fry  it  an'  let  me  gang  to  Granpaw  Purdie's, 
I'll  learn  the  poetry,"  said  her  son. 

"Ah,  weel,  learn  it,  an'  we'll  see.  Oh,  mercy!" 
Lizzie  rose  abruptly.  "There's  wee  Jeanie  wauken. 
I'll  ha'e  to  gang  to  her.  I  doobt  she's  got  a  touch  o' 
the  cauld.  She's  that  restless.  John,  see  if  you  an' 
Macgreegor  canna  haud  yer  tongues  for  ten  meenutes." 
And,  taking  a  spoon  and  bottle  with  her,  she  depart- 
ed to  the  other  room. 

"Jeanie's  gaun  to  get  ile!"  Macgregor  observed  in 
a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Learn  yer  poetry,  ma  mannie,  an'  try  if  ye  canna 
be  ready  to  say  it  when  yer  maw  comes  back.  It'll 
please  her." 

"Ay,"  said  Macgregor.  "D'ye  think  she  couldna 
spell  Habakkuk,  paw?  I'll  ask  her  when  she  comes 
back." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation — "Och,  she  could  spell 
it  easy,"  said  John.  "Yer  maw  was  aye  a  famous  spell- 
er. But  never  heed  aboot  Habakkuk  the  noo " 

"Wha  was  Habakkuk;  what  did  he  dae?" 

"Aw,  ye  best  speir  at  yer  granpaw,  when  ye  see 
him." 

"I  wudna  like  to  be  ca'ed  Habakkuk.  What  was 
his  ither  name?" 

"That'll  dae,  that'll  dae.    Attend  to  yer  poetry." 


6  KIDDIES 

Macgregor  bent  over  his  book,  and  John  lit  his  pipe. 
A  short  silence  ensued. 

"Paw,  Jeanie's  gettin'  ile — I  hear  her." 

"Weel,  dinna  listen.  Ye  wudna  like  onybody  to  be 
listenin'  if  you  was  gettin'  ile." 

"They  wudna  hear  onything.  I  dinna  mak'  noises. 
.  .  .  Paw!" 

"What?" 

"Will  ye  be  pleased  if  I  learn  ma  poetry?" 

"Deed,  ay,  Macgreegor." 

"Will  ye  be  awfu  pleased?" 

"Ay." 

"Will  ye  be  that  pleased  that  ye'll  gi'e  me  a  penny, 
paw?" 

Mr.  Robinson  frowned,  then  laughed.  "We'll  see 
aboot  that.  But  if  ye  can  say  the  poetry  rale  weel " 

"I'll  learn  it!" 

"That's  the  richt  sort  o'  laddie!  Wire  in,  an'  I'll 
awa'  an'  see  hoo  yer  wee  sister's  gettin'  on.  I'm  vexed 
to  hear  her  cryin'  like  that." 

"It's  jist  the  ile.  If  ye  was  gettin'  her  some 
sweeties "  The  boy  looked  expectant. 

"Na,  na.  Yer  maw  doesna  want  sweeties  in  the 
hoose  excep',  maybe,  on  Seturdays." 

John  left  the  room  rather  hurriedly.  He  had  dis- 
covered in  his  watch-pocket  a  solitary  peppermint 
lozenge,  and  while  anxious  to  convey  solace  to  his  lit- 
tle daughter,  he  was  glad  of  an  excuse  to  have  a  word 
with  his  wife. 

"Lizzie,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  when  Jeanie's  sobs 
had  subsided  under  the  fragrant  influence  of  the 
lozenge,  "Lizzie,  can  ye  spell  Habakkuk?" 

"What?" 

"I'm  askin'  ye,  can  ye  spell  Habakkuk?" 

"What  for?"  Lizzie  was  feeling  tired.  "I'm  no* 
heedin'  aboot  yer  bit  jokes  the  noo,  John."  She  sat 


HABAKKUK  7 

down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "Awa'  back  to  the 
kitchen,  an'  let  me  put  the  wee  lassie  to  sleep.  Puir 
doo!  Had  she  to  get  nesty  ile,  the  dearie,  had  she? 
But  she'll  be  a'  better  in  the  mornin',  she  will  that! 
Noo  she's  gaun  to  put  her  handy-pandies  ablow  the 
blankets,  an'  her  maw'll  tell  her  a  wee  story  aboot 
a " 

"But,  Lizzie,  it's  no'  a  joke.  D'ye  think  ye  could 
manage  to  spell  Habakkuk,  if  I  asked  ye?" 

"No'  if  the  King  asked  me!  Ye  ken  I  was  never 
ony  use  at  the  spellin' " 

"Could  ye  no  learn  to  spell  it,  Lizzie?  Ye  see, 
I'm  feart  Macgreegor  asks  ye  to  spell  it.  I  was  tellin' 
the  laddie  ye  was  a  famous  speller,  an'  it  wudna  be 
very  nice  for  you  or  me  if  ye  couldna  spell  the  word. 
Ye  wudna  like  it  yersel',  wife." 

"Oh,  mercy!"  she  groaned.  "Hoo  dae  ye  spell  it, 
John?" 

"Me!  I  could  as  sune  spell  Nebycanezzar !  But 
I'll  get  ye  the  Bible,  an'  ye  can  learn  it  afore  ye  show 
face  ben  the  hoose." 

"Ay,  that's  it,  John!  Bring  the  Bible,  though  I 
doobt  if  I'll  mind  the  spellin'  ten  meenutes  efter " 

"Aw,  Lizzie!"  he  cried  in  sudden  dismay. 

"What  is't,  John?" 

"D'ye  no'  mind,  we  left  the  twa  Bibles  in  the  kirk 
on  Sunday?  There's  jist  a  New  Testament  in  the 
hoose,  an  Habakkuk's  in  the  Auld.  .  .  .  What's  to  be 
done  ?  It's  ower  late  to  buy  a  Bible." 

Mechanically  patting  the  drowsy  child,  Mrs.  Robin- 
son remained  silent. 

"If  ye  hadna  been  sae  sharp  wi'  Macgreegor  aboot 
his  lessons "  began  John. 

"If  ye  had  stopped  him  speakin'  aboot  Habakkuk 
instead  o'  makin'  fun " 

"A  Bible  no'  the  kin'  o'  thing  I  wud  like  to  be  askin' 


8  KIDDIES 

the  len'  o'  frae  ma  neebours,"  said  John  gloomily  re- 
flective. "They  wud  think  we  was  either  awfu'  bad 
or  else  unco  guid.  ...  If  I  kent  onybody  that  could 
spell  the  word,  I  wud  gang  to  him  an'  bet  him  sax- 
pence  he  couldna  dae  it.  ...  But  then  I  couldna  tell 
if  he  was  richt,  an'  I  wud  loss  ma  saxpence  either 
wey." 

"It  wudna  be  seemly  to  bet  aboot  the  name  o'  yin 
o'  the  prophets  o'  the  Auld  Testament.  But  I  —  I  wish 
Habakkuk  had  been  left  oot,"  said  Lizzie  irritably. 
"Ma  fayther  used  to  spell  it  to  us  when  we  was  weans, 
but  I  canna  mind  hoo  he  done  it.  I  wisht  I  had  peyed 
attention  when  he  was  learnin'  it  to  Macgreegor. 
Maybe  the  laddie'll  ha'e  forgot  a'  aboot  it  by  this 
time." 

"Weans  never  forget  the  things  ye  want  them  to 
forget.  Macgreegor'll  maybe  forget  to  ask  ye  the  nicht, 
but  as  sure's  death  he'll  ask  ye  afore  long.  Could  ye 
no'  try  to  spell  it,  Lizzie?  —  an'  I'll  tell  ye  if  it  soun's 
kin'  o'  correct.  It  begins  wi'  an'  'H.'  " 

"Aw,  I  ken  that  much.  An'  then  there's  an  'A' 
...  But  is't  wan  'B'  or  twa  'BY?" 

"Dear  knows!     Try  it  wi'  twa,  woman." 

"H-A-B-B—  weel,  what  next?" 

"  T  .  .  .  That  gi'es  ye  Habbi.  Noo  for  the 
'kuk.'  " 

"Kuk,"     she     murmured      thoughtfully,      "kuk  — 


John  laughed. 

"What's  ado?"  she  asked  crossly. 

"I  couldna  help  it,  Lizzie  —  ye  was  that  like  a  hen! 
Wud  ye  start  wi'  a  V?  Eh?" 

"  'C,'  "  said  Lizzie,  "C-U-C-K.  .  .  .  D'ye  think 
that  could  be  richt?" 

"Try  it  a'thegither  noo." 

"H-A-B-B-I-C-U-C-K." 


HABAKKUK  9 

John  shook  his  head.    "It  seems  kin'  o'  queer." 

"But  it's  a  queer  kin'  o'  name." 

"Ay;  but  I  doobt " 

"Weel,  spell  it  yersel' !"  she  said  smartly. 

John  signed.  "I've  a  guid  mind,"  he  said  presently, 
"to  gang  doon  to  the  druggist's  an'  telephone  to  the 
meenister." 

"Man,  he  wud  think  ye  had  gaed  daft,  or  ye  was 
the  worse  o'  drink." 

"I  duarsay  he  wud,"  John  admitted  wearily, 
"though  it  wud  be  his  business  to  inform  me.  Ha'e 
ye  nae  notion  yersel',  Lizzie?" 

She  did  not  reply.  The  simplest  way  out  had  long 
ago  occurred  to  both,  but  John  would  not  have  taken 
it,  and  Lizzie  would  not  have  asked  him  to  do  so.  They 
had  always  dealt  straightly  with  their  boy. 

The  sound  of  a  chair  pushed  back  reached  their 
ears,  and  a  little  later  Macgregor  put  his  head  into 
the  room.  "Maw,  I  can  say  ma  poetry  noo." 

"A'  richt,  dearie.  I'll  be  ben  in  twa- three  meen- 
utes,"  said  his  mother.  "Wee  Jeanie's  near  sleepin' 
noo.  Learn  yer — learn  something  else  till  I'm  ready." 

"I'll  learn  ma  spellin',"  said  Macgregor,  and  retired. 

"I  wish  we  could  learn  oor  spellin',"  said  John,  with 
a  rueful  grin.  "Dod,  Lizzie,  I  wudna  like  him  to 
think  ye  couldna  spell  Habakkuk.  I  wudna  care  for 
masel',  but  he  thinks  you  ken  everything.  Is  there 
naething  I  can  dae?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "There's  nae  use  speirin'  at 
folk,  for  ye  cudna  believe  unless  ye  seen  the  word  in 
print.  An'  I  wudna  ha'e  onybody  think  we  hadna 
a  Bible  in  the  hoose.  Macgreegor'll  jist  ha'e  to  fin'  oot 
that  his  maw  canna  spell  Habakkuk.  Nae  doobt,  as 
he  grows  aulder,  he'll  fin'  oot  plenty  o'  things  his 
maw  canna  dae.  I  wisht  ye  hadna  said  onything  aboot 


io  KIDDIES 

it,  John.  I  wudna  ha'e  mindit,  if  I  hadna  kent  it  was 
comin'." 

"I  done  it  for  the  best  when  I  warned  ye,  wife," 
he  returned,  in  deep  dejection.  "I  done  it  for  the 
best." 

"I  believe  that.  But  we'll  jist  ha'e  to  seem  to  be 
amused-like  when  he  asks  me,  an'  I  canna  spell  it. 
Maybe  ye  wud  hear  him  his  lessons — espaycially  his 
spellin',  the  nicht,  John;  an' — an'  maybe  ye  could  get 
his  mind  awa'  frae  onything  like  what  we've  been 
speakin'  aboot.  D'ye  see?" 

"I'll  try,"  said  John. 

In  a  little  while  he  went  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"I'll  hear  ye  yer  poetry,"  he  said  as  cheerfully  as 
possible. 

"Is  maw  no'  comin'  to  hear  me?"  the  boy  asked. 

"Ye  can  say  it  to  me  for  a  change." 

"An'  ye'll  tell  her  I  could  say  it,  so  I'll  get  ma  fried 
egg,  paw?" 

;"Deed,  ay!     Noo  fire  awa'." 

Macgregor  got  through  the  stanza  with  as  few  stum- 
bles as  the  average  small  boy  would  have  incurred. 

"Ye  could  say  it  better,  if  ye  tried  harder,"  said  his 
father. 

"I  daursay  I  could.  .  .  .  Are  ye  gaun  to  hear  me  ma 
spellin'?" 

"If  ye  ken  it." 

"Ay;  I  ken  it." 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  Mr.  Robinson  closed  the 
book.  "I  was  never  great  on  the  spellin'  masel',"  he 
observed,  "but  I  think  I  could  ha'e  done  a  wee  thing 
better  nor  that  when  I  was  your  age,  ma  mannie! 
Ye'll  ha'e  to " 

"Could  ye  spell  Habakkuk  when  ye  was  ma  age, 
paw?" 

"I'm  sayin'  ye'll  ha'e  to  rise  in  the  mornin'  an'  gang 


HABAKKUK  u 

ower  the  words  again.  An'  noo,  what  else  ha'e  ye  got 
to  dae.  Ha'e  ye  ony  meanin's  o'  words?" 

"We  dinna  get  meanin's  when  we  get  poetry. 
There's  jist  the  readin'.  Ye  dinna  need  to  hear  me 
that." 

"Ay,  I'll  hear  ye." 

Presently,  "Ye're  no'  sic  a  bad  reader,"  said  John, 
looking  gratified.  "Ha'e  ye  done  yer  sums?" 

"Ay;  but  ye're  no'  allowed  to  help  me  wi'  them." 

"I  ken  that.  It's  maybe  jist  as  weel."  John  relit 
his  pipe  and  wondered  what  he  could  tell  to  entertain 
his  son. 

"Paw,"  said  Macgregor,  "let's  hear  ye  try  to  spell 
Habakkuk." 

"Aw,  never  heed  about  auld  Habby  the  noo.  D'ye 
ken,  I  was  readin'  in  the  paper  aboot  a  ship " 

Just  then  Lizzie  entered. 

"Ha'e  ye  feenished  yer  lessons,  Macgreegor?"  she  in- 
quired, sitting  down  with  her  seam  and  heaving  a  sigh. 

"Ay,"  replied  John.  "An'  he's  earned  that  fried 
egg!  I  was  gaun  to  tell  him  aboot  a  ship  that  struck 
a » 

"Maw,  can  you  spell — " 

" — a  rock,  an'  afore  the  captain  could " 

"—Habakkuk?" 

"Never  heed,  John,  ye  canna  save  me,"  said  Lizzie 
resignedly.  "I  doobt,  dearie,  ye'll  ha'e  to  tell  me  hoo 
to  spell  it." 

Macgregor  smiled.  "Ay;  I'll  spell  it  to  ye. 
H-A-B-A-K-U-K.  .  .  .  Habakkuk!" 

"Fine,"  said  Lizzie  gently. 

"Splendid!"  ejaculated  John,  trying  to  look  happy. 

"It's  a  gey  hard  word  to  spell,"  Macgregor  re- 
marked, with  not  a  little  complacence.  "I  was  feart 
ye  wudna  manage  it." 


II 

LITTLE  BOY 


BILLY  sat  in  the  sunshine,  a  small  hatless  figure  in 
clothing  very  black  against  the  whiteness  of  the  lodge 
steps.  A  book,  open  at  a  coloured  picture,  lay  across 
his  knees,  but  it  had  evidently  ceased  to  interest  him, 
for  his  gaze  strayed  from  the  great  gates  on  his  left 
to  the  avenue  on  his  right  and  back  again.  So  it 
had  been  straying  for  about  an  hour,  though,  to  be 
sure,  he  would  have  told  you  that  "hours  and  hours" 
had  passed  since  the  great  gates  had  been  opened 
to  let  out  a  splendid  motor-car  containing  a  smart 
chauffeur  and  a  rather  cross-looking  gentleman  who 
stared  at  him  for  an  instant  and  returned  to  reading 
a  newspaper.  Immediately  the  car  went  through, 
the  gates  had  been  closed  by  the  lodge-keeper,  who 
was  Billy's  uncle,  and  whom  Billy  had  not  yet  got 
to  know  very  well,  except  as  a  terribly  tall  man  who 
seemed  to  want  to  be  kind,  but  didn't  exactly  know 
how  to  go  about  it.  After  closing  the  gates,  which 
he  did  as  though  he  were  fond  of  them,  the  uncle  had 
nodded  to  Billy,  saying:  "Be  a  good  boy,  and  see 
and  not  get  into  mischief,  and  do  what  your  aunt 
bids  ye."  Which  was  just  what  Billy  expected  him 
to  say,  though  he  had  stayed  at  the  lodge  only  a  week. 
Then  the  uncle  had  gone  briskly  up  the  avenue. 

Since  then  nothing  at  all  had  happened. 

Through  the  open  door  behind  him  Billy  heard  his 
12 


LITTLE  BOY  13 

aunt  moving  about  the  little  house.  He  heard  other 
sounds  also — sounds  of  washing,  scrubbing,  sweeping, 
even  the  flip  of  a  duster.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his 
aunt  was  always  cleaning  something  or  telling  him  not 
to  make  something  dirty.  He  was  sure  he  had  been 
very  careful  since  he  came  to  stay  with  her,  and  yet 
the  cleaning  went  on  from  breakfast-time  till  supper; 
sometimes  he  heard  it  after  he  was  in  bed.  Why 
didn't  she  let  him  help  her?  He  had  helped  his  mother 
about  the  house  when  he  was  only  four,  and  now 
he  was  six.  But  once  when  he  had  proffered  his  ser- 
vices to  his  aunt  she  had  laughed,  not  unkindly,  say- 
ing: "Tits,  laddie,  run  away  and  play!"  And  he  had 
nearly  replied:  "But  I've  no  one  to  play  with";  in- 
deed, he  would  have  said  it  had  not  a  painful  lump 
come  into  his  throat,  warning  him  that  he  must  "run 
away"  quickly  unless  he  wanted  her  to  see  him  crying. 
Billy  had  not  asked  himself  whether  his  aunt  loved  him 
or  not.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  she  did,  for  she 
gave  him  all  the  good  food  he  could  eat,  and  a  pretty, 
cosy  little  bed,  and  had  seemed  really  sorry  when  he 
had  fallen  off  the  steps  the  day  after  his  arrival.  But 
he  did  wish  she  would  allow  him  to  love  her.  He 
had  the  same  feeling  about  his  uncle,  but  could  not 
think  of  any  way  of  "helping"  him.  Still,  he  would 
gladly  have  walked  up  the  avenue  with  his  uncle,  who 
had  work  in  the  hot-houses  and  gardens,  and  have  met 
him  coming  home,  and  have  taken  his  hand,  if  his 
uncle  had  so  desired.  But  his  uncle — no,  perhaps  it 
was  his  aunt — had  said  that  Sir  Henry  and  her  lady- 
ship would  not  care  about  a  strange  little  boy  being 
about  the  grounds,  and  that  Billy  must  always  be  care- 
ful to  stay  near  the  lodge. 

Now  had  Billy  been  a  little  girl  he  might  have  been 
happy  enough  in  the  sunshine,  with  a  doll  to  play  with, 
or  a  fairy-book  to  look  at,  or  a  "shop"  to  keep  on 


14  KIDDIES 

the  steps  (though  that  would  probably  have  annoyed 
the  owner  of  the  steps),  or  even  a  day-dream.  But 
the  heart  of  a  little  boy  is  not  so  self-supporting ;  it 
can  dance  as  lightly  as  a  little  girl's,  only  it  cannot 
so  readily  supply  its  own  tune;  left  to  itself  it  asks 
too  many  questions.  Not  that  Billy  particularly  craved 
the  company  of  other  children  just  then;  any  com- 
pany, so  long  as  it  were  kindly,  would  have  satisfied 
him.  In  some  ways  he  was  "old-fashioned,"  albeit  he 
still  believed  in  fairies  and  giants.  You — if  you  were 
one  of  those  people  who  are  always  talking  about  un- 
derstanding children  (as  if  that  were  a  simple  matter) 
— would  have  said  that  the  little  boy  sitting  solitary 
on  those  white  steps  was  not  a  proper  boy  at  all,  be- 
cause he  made  no  attempt  at  play,  because  his  hands 
and  face  were  clean  and  his  broad  linen  collar  spot- 
less; you  would,  possibly,  after  three  minutes'  conver- 
sation, have  called  him  "girlish,"  because  his  eyes  were 
beautiful,  his  speech  soft,  his  manner  gentle,  his  feel- 
ings (if  you  touched  them)  intensely  sensitive.  But 
probably,  were  you  an  ordinary  person  with  any  heart 
worth  mentioning,  you  would  simply  have  wanted  to 
sit  down  beside  Billy  and  put  your  arm  round  him. 

Billy  had  been  wearying  for  something  to  happen. 
And  nothing  had  happened.  He  began  to  feel  lonely. 
He  tried  his  book  again.  He  could  not  read,  but  he 
knew  the  stories  by  heart,  and  he  whispered  them  over 
to  himself  as  he  turned  the  familiar  pictures.  The 
book  was  an  old  friend,  but  somehow  it  failed  to  prove 
a  comforting  companion  at  this  time.  Perhaps  it  even 
made  him  feel  lonelier.  You  see,  his  father  had  bought 
it  for  him,  and  his  mother  had  taught  him  the  stories. 

Presently  he  let  it  slip  from  his  knee ;  it  fell  down 
the  steps  upon  the  gravel.  He  descended  after  it,  and 
was  about  to  pick  it  up,  when  the  painful  lump  came 
into  his  throat.  For  a  moment,  his  hand  to  his  mouth, 


LITTLE  BOY  15 

he  looked  at  the  open  door.  Then  he  turned  and  ran 
up  the  avenue.  Only  a  few  yards,  but  the  sob  could 
be  contained  no  longer.  He  stumbled  from  the  gravel 
path  into  the  wood.  A  few  yards  more  and,  hidden 
by  a  large  rhododendron,  he  let  himself  fall  on  the 
rank  grass  and  dead  leaves.  And  there  he  cried  softly 
but  sorely.  Even  the  heart  of  a  child  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness. 

Yet  happily  such  bitterness  though  in  the  heart  is 
not  of  it,  and  after  a  season  flows  forth  with  the  tears. 
Billy's  weeping  came  to  an  end  at  last,  but  he  was 
still  breathing  unevenly  when  he  rose  to  his  knees  and 
rubbed  his  wet  eyes  and  cheeks  with  his  sleeve,  forget- 
ting that  he  possessed  a  handkerchief.  His  grief  and 
his  close  acquaintance  with  Mother  Earth  had  not 
improved  his  appearance.  His  countenance  was  tear- 
stained,  his  yellow  hair  tousled,  his  hands  rather  dirty, 
and  there  was  a  grubby  mark  on  his  collar.  But  he 
did  not  see  or  consider  these  things,  and,  encouraged 
by  the  thought  that  no  one  had  witnessed  him  crying, 
he  got  upon  his  feet  and  looked  about  him.  He  felt 
that  he  ought  to  return  to  the  lodge,  but  something 
suggested  his  taking  a  few  steps  further  into'  the  wood. 
Perhaps  that  something  was  the  Spirit  of  Adventure ; 
at  any  rate,  Billy  obeyed  the  impulse.  After  a  brief 
halt  he  took  a  few  steps  more.  This  occurred  several 
times,  until  he  found  himself  standing  on  a  narrow 
and  apparently  little-used  footpath. 

He  trotted  along,  his  heart  growing  lighter  and 
lighter.  Now  and  then  he  stopped  and  stooped  to  ex- 
amine fir-cones,  but  did  not  touch  them,  never  having 
seen  such  things  before.  Possibly  he  was  relieved  that 
they  neither  moved  nor  made  noises,  and  he  was  care- 
ful to  avoid  treading  on  them.  Until  now  Billy's 
existence  had  been  passed  in  cities  and  towns,  with  an 
occasional  trip  to  the  larger  seaside  resorts,  for  it  was 


16  KIDDIES 

among  crowds  that  his  parents  had  made  a  living.  A 
third-rate  singer  and  a  fourth-rate  fiddler,  they  had 
not,  perhaps,  been  very  exemplary  people,  but  at  least 
they  had  loved  their  little  boy  devotedly  and  shielded 
him  from  much  that  was  deplorable.  They  had  died 
of  enteric  within  a  week  of  each  other,  and  after  sev- 
eral months  of  residence  with  various  relatives  Billy 
had  been  received  by  his  uncle  and  aunt  at  the  lodge, 
not  without  many  misgivings  on  the  part  of  the  middle- 
aged  childless  couple.  But  so  far  the  boy  had  puzzled 
rather  than  troubled  them. 

He  had  not  walked  far  when  he  saw  before  him  a 
high  wall.  It  had  a  forbidding  look,  and  he  would 
probably  have  turned  back  had  he  not  perceived  a 
gate.  Also,  the  gate  was  made  of  iron  bars;  and,  as 
everybody  knows,  such  a  gate  is  so  designed  in  order 
that  little  boys  may  peep  through  it.  Billy,  with  vague 
thoughts  of  a  giant's  castle,  approached  the  gate  on 
tip-toe  and  peeped  through.  Then  he  was  glad  he  had 
come. 

He  gazed  upon  a  big  garden — at  least,  it  seemed  big 
to  him — with  high  walls  all  around  it.  In  the  wall 
opposite  was  a  green  door,  closed,  and  at  a  good  dis- 
tance beyond  he  saw  the  upper  part  of  a  large  house. 
The  walls  of  the  garden  were  covered  with  fruit-trees, 
many  in  blossom,  pink  and  white,  but  the  garden  itself 
was  filled  with  flowers,  and  every  flower  was  white. 
Some  of  the  flowers,  especially  the  narcissus — he  knew 
them  as  "white  lilies" — were  familiar  to  Billy,  for  he 
and  his  mother  had  sometimes  bought  them  in  the  Lon- 
don streets.  There  was  a  spacious  bed  of  them  in  the 
midst  of  the  garden.  And  on  the  path  around  the  bed 
walked  a  lady  in  a  pale  grey  dress. 

At  the  first  sight  of  her  Billy  drew  back,  but  as  she 
did  not  notice  him  he  drew  close  to  the  bars  once 


LITTLE  BOY  17 

more.  She  was  a  beautiful  lady,  and  her  hair  was 
yellow  like  his  own.  She  walked  slowly,  and  never 
raised  her  eyes  from  the  path,  or,  it  may  have  been, 
the  narcissus  bed.  Sometimes  she  clasped  her  hands  in 
front  of  her,  and  Billy  saw  little  flashes.  Sometimes 
she  let  them  fall  by  her  side.  He  wondered  why  she 
never  looked  up. 

Quite  suddenly  Billy  was  reminded  of  his  mother 
in  her  last  "singing  dress."  He  choked,  turned,  took 
two  steps,  and  collapsed,  his  face  hidden  on  his  arms. 

The  beautiful  lady  had  looked  up  at  last.  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  as  though  she  were  going  to  run 
away.  Then,  with  a  pale  face,  she  came  swiftly  to  the 
gate. 

"Little  boy,  what  is  the  matter?"  Her  question 
was  scarce  more  than  a  whisper. 

Amid  the  sobs  that  would  not  be  checked  came  the 
broken,  desperate  cry: 

"Oh,  mother — mother!" 

And  at  that  the  beautiful  lady  became  paler  still 
and  wavered,  and  clutched  at  a  bar  of  the  gate. 

"Wait,  little  boy;  wait  till  I  get  the  key,"  she 
said  unsteadily.  "The  gate  has  not  been  opened  for  so 
long — so  long." 

As  she  ran  to  a  summer-house  not  far  off  she  repeat- 
ed the  two  words  with  trembling  lips. 

The  rusted  lock  resisted,  but  at  length  she  forced 
the  key  round  and  drew  the  gate  open.  Billy  was 
struggling  to  his  feet. 

"Don't  run  away — don't  be  afraid,"  she  said  gently, 
noting  the  badly-fitting  black  clothes  which  Billy  was 
"wearing  out"  ere  he  should  grow  too  big  for  them. 
"What  is  the  matter?  Have  you  hurt  yourself?  Did 
you  fall?  Tell  me,  little  boy." 


1 8  KIDDIES 

"Oh,  mother!"  he  cried  again,  his  face  in  his  hands, 
his  shoulders  heaving. 

Blindly  he  turned  to  go,  but  her  hand  fell  softly 
on  his  arm. 

"Little  boy,"  she  whispered;  and  there  her  voice 
failed  her. 

She  slipped  to  her  knees,  and  her  arm  went  round 
him.  She  shivered  as  if  with  pain. 

Then  Billy  felt  himself  being  drawn  close  to  her — 
closer  yet.  He  did  not  resist.  He  yielded.  He  al- 
lowed her  to  take  his  hands  from  his  face.  And  then 
his  face  was  at  her  bosom,  and  both  arms  were  round 
him,  and  a  hand  was  tenderly  patting  him.  While 
yet  he  sobbed  a  most  wonderful  peace  fell  upon  him, 
a  most  exquisite  sense  of  comfort  prevaded  his  heart. 

But  presently  he  became  aware  that  the  lady  was 
crying  too.  He  didn't  know  what  to  do,  and  he 
couldn't  say  anything.  But  his  arms  of  their  own  ac- 
cord went  round  her  as  far  as  they  could  reach,  and 
clung. 

"Little  boy — little  boy,"  she  whispered. 

Later,  the  beautiful  lady  invited  him  into  her  gar- 
den, and  Billy,  his  hand  in  hers,  assented  readily,  al- 
most blithely. 

First  they  went  to  the  summer-house,  at  the  side  of 
which  was  a  water-tap.  With  her  handkerchief  she 
washed  away  the  tear  stains  from  his  face,  and  after- 
wards bathed  her  own  eyes. 

"For  you  see,  little  boy,"  she  said,  "we  don't  wish 
other  people  to  know  we  have  been  crying." 

"No;  we  don't,"  said  Billy. 

She  asked  him  his  name. 

"Billy.    I'm  six." 

He  had  learned  that  grown-up  people  who  ask  your 
name  always  want  to  know  your  age  also. 


LITTLE  BOY  ;          19 

"Six !"  she  said  after  a  little  while,  and  sighed. 
"Why  are  you  sorry?"  he  inquired  anxiously. 
"Come!"  she  said,  touching  his  hair.     "Would  you 
like  to  walk  round  my  garden?    I  want  you  to  tell  me 
about  yourself,  Billy.     How  did  you  find  your  way 
here?" 

"I  was  feeling  sorry  and  I  just  came."  He  gave 
her  hand  a  small  squeeze.  "You  was  glad  to  see  me, 
wasn't  you,  ma'am?" 

"I — yes ;  I  was  glad  to  see  you.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  come  here  and  play  another  morning?" 

"Oh!"  he  cried,  "play  here — with  you?  Would  you 
play  with  me?" 

Her  free  hand  went  to  her  heart. 
"Perhaps,"  she  answered  with  an  effort.    "Oh,  little 
boy,  little  boy,   if  you  only  knew!     But  now" — her 
voice  steadied — "tell  me  where  you  came  from." 

Within  the  next  hour  she  drew  from  him  his  little 
history. 

"And  you  like  staying  with  your  aunt  and  uncle  at 
the  lodge,  Billy?" 

He  nodded.  He  certainly  liked  it  now.  But  a  look 
of  alarm  came  into  his  face. 

"They'll  be  angry "  he  began  in  distress. 

She  understood. 

"Shall  I  come  with  you  and  explain?  I  think  I 
had  better.  And  I  could  tell  your  aunt  to  let  you 
come  here  in  the  mornings  when  you  have  nothing 
better  to  do — until  your  school-days  begin.  I  am  nearly 
always  here  in  the  mornings,  when  the  weather  is  fine. 
Sometimes  I  read  and  sometimes  I  sew,  and  some- 
times I  just  walk  about — take  care,  Billy!  Your  boot- 
lace is  loose.  Shall  I  tie  it  for  you?" 

He  could  not  manage  it,  so  once  more  she  went  on 
her  knees  to  help  him.  And  Billy,  his  heart  over- 
flowing, flung  his  arms  about  her  neck. 


20  KIDDIES 

"You're  kind;  you're  just  awful  kind,"  he  whis- 
pered, and  was  shocked  when  the  lady  cried  again, 
holding  him  to  her  breast. 

But  soon  she  reassured  him,  promising  not  to  cry 
the  next  time  he  came;  and  when  the  troublesome  lace 
had  been  tied,  she  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand,  and 
they  set  off  for  the  lodge. 

So  happy  days  began  for  Billy.  He  did  not  see  the 
beautiful  lady  every  morning,  but  she  always  let  him 
know  in  advance  when  she  would  not  be  in  the  gar- 
den, so  that  he  should  never  arrive  at  the  gate  and  be 
disappointed.  In  fine  weather  they  played  in  the  gar- 
den— at  first  she  did  not  play  particularly  well ;  would 
stop  in  the  middle  of  a  game  and  send  Billy  to  the 
far  end  of  the  garden  to  find  a  certain  kind  of  flower; 
but  afterwards  she  did  better — and  when  the  weather 
was  not  quite  fine  she  read  stories  to  him  in  the  sum- 
mer-house, where  now  and  then  they  had  a  small  pic- 
nic. Sometimes,  too,  they  played  in  the  wood.  And 
Billy  loved  her  more  every  day.  And  she — ah,  well, 
you  shall  see! 

H 

The  trees  were  now  in  full  leaf.  From  the  avenue 
a  whispering  sound  came  to  Billy  sitting  on  the  white 
steps,  for  there  had  been  a  storm  in  the  night,  and 
though  the  rain  was  over,  the  wind  was  not  yet  ex- 
hausted. Billy  was  no  longer  clad  in  dingy  black; 
he  wore  a  smart  sailor  suit  with  brass  buttons.  The 
suit  had  arrived  mysteriously,  and  his  aunt  had  told 
Billy  to  ask  no  questions,  but  to  wear  it  and  keep 
it  clean,  and  not  think  he  had  got  it  through  any 
merit  of  his  own;  while  his  uncle  had  expressed  the 
hope  that  Billy  would  always  be  a  good  boy,  do  as  he 
was  bid,  and  not  get  into  mischief. 

This  morning  Billy  was  chiefly  engaged  in  listening 


LITTLE  BOY  21 

to  the  trees,  admiring  the  glint  of  his  buttons  in  the 
sunshine,  and  wishing  it  had  been  a  "garden  day." 
To-morrow  seemed  so  far  away.  A  drawing-book 
lay  on  his  knee,  but  the  breeze  made  the  pages  flap, 
and  he  had  given  up  attempting  to  copy  the  squares 
and  oblongs  and  triangles.  From  the  lodge  came  the 
sounds  of  scrubbing  and  the  slop  of  a  wet  cloth,  which, 
however,  were  now  so  familiar  that  he  scarcely  noticed 
them.  But  he  pricked  up  his  ears  as  a  humming  sound 
mingled  with  the  whisper  of  leafage.  The  sole  event 
of  the  morning  was  about  to  take  place. 

The  lodge-keeper  appeared  round  the  corner  of  the 
lodge,  glanced  at  his  big  silver  watch,  and  solemnly 
proceeded  to  open  the  great  gates.  Billy  wished,  as 
he  wished  every  morning,  to  be  allowed  to  help,  but 
did  not  like  to  ask.  A  minute  later  the  car  came  glid- 
ing down  the  avenue.  Billy  prepared  to  touch  his 
cap — now  a  nautical  affair  with  H.M.S.  Dreadnought 
on  the  encircling  ribbon — as  his  uncle  had  instructed 
him  to  do.  But  his  finger  stopped  in  mid-air,  for  the 
car,  instead  of  humming  past,  as  it  usually  did,  came 
to  a  standstill  right  before  him.  Billy's  surprise  was 
equalled  only  by  his  uncle's. 

"Like  to  come  for  a  ride,  boy?"  said  the  rather 
cross-looking  gentleman  who  was  driving. 

"What?"  cried  Billy,  astounded,  petrified. 

"Billy!"  began  his  uncle  in  a  tone  of  reproof. 

The  rather  cross-looking  gentleman  signed  sharply 
for  silence. 

"Come  along,  Billy,"  he  said  pleasantly,  so  pleasantly 
indeed  that  the  boy  rose,  dropping  his  drawing-book, 
came  down  the  steps,  and  clambered  into  the  tonneau. 

"That's  right!"  said  the  rather  cross-looking  gen- 
tleman. "Will  you  be  all  right  there  alone?" 

Billy  smiled  bravely. 

The  gentleman  motioned  to  the  chauffeur  to  go  be- 


22  KIDDIES 

hind,  then  apparently  changing  his  mind,  gave  up  the 
driving-seat  to  him,  and  went  behind  himself. 

"Back  about  one,"  he  said  to  the  lodge-keeper  as  the 
car  slipped  through  the  gateway. 

"Well,  I'm  blest!"  said  the  lodge-keeper  to  himself, 
and  after  closing  the  gates  went  straightway  to  his 
wife. 

Billy's  blue  eyes  were  big,  as  the  car,  gathering 
speed,  spun  along  the  high  road,  but  his  wits  were  com- 
ing back.  And  first  of  all  he  remembered  that  he 
must  be  polite.  So  when  he  heard  a  voice  asking 
whether  he  had  ever  been  in  a  car  before,  he  replied: 

"No,  sir." 

And  when  asked  if  he  liked  it: 

"Yes,  sir." 

All  the  same  he  was  not  quite  comfortable  on  the 
leather  cushion,  gripping  the  outer  edge  with  both 
hands;  and  when  the  car  took  a  curve  he  thought  he 
was  going,  and,  with  a  cry,  made  a  grab  at  his  com- 
panion— and  missed  him.  But  in  the  same  instant  a 
strong  arm  was  round  him,  lifting  him  well  on  to  the 
seat  and  holding  him  there. 

"That  better?" 

"Yes — yes,  sir — but  please  hold  me." 

The  gentleman  gave  a  queer  laugh,  but  held  him 
a  trifle  tighter.  About  ten  minutes  later,  the  gentle- 
man said: 

"Enjoying  it— er— Billy?" 

"Awful — yes,  sir." 

After  that  they  spoke  very  little.  About  noon  they 
stopped  at  a  farm,  where  Billy  got  a  glass  of  milk,  and 
the  farmer's  wife  called  him  her  "bonny  boy,"  and 
hugged  him  when  he  offered  to  kiss  her.  It  was  only 
the  little  boys  who  get  plenty  of  kisses  who  really  ob- 
ject to  kissing. 

They  were  nearly  home  when  Billy,  glancing  up  at 


LITTLE  BOY  23 

his  new  friend,  in  whom  he  had  already  acquired  the 
utmost  confidence,  inquired : 

"Why  are  you  sorry?" 

"Sorry!    Why  do  you  think  I'm  sorry?" 

"You  look  sorry,  sir." 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  'sir,'  Billy.  Perhaps  I  can't 
help  it — perhaps  I  always  look  sorry." 

"No;  you  mostly  look  cross." 

"Oh!" 

"But  not  now,"  said  Billy  leniently.  "Now  you 
look  sorry  and  nice" 

"My  dear  little  chap!"  said  the  gentleman  very 
softly,  but  when  Billy  looked  up  again,  his  face  was 
as  cross  as  ever. 

Billy  could  not  understand  it,  but  he  was  not  afraid, 
and  moved  an  inch  closer. 

"I  say,  Billy,  would  you  like  to  come  with  me  again 
to-morrow  morning?"  the  gentleman  asked,  when  the 
great  gates  were  in  sight. 

"Oh,  yes,  but — but  I  can't  come!"  Billy  remem- 
bered that  the  morrow  was  a  "garden  day."  Perhaps 
he  regretted  the  fact,  but  he  was  not  too  young  for 

loyalty.  "You  see "  he  began;  it  was  his  way  of 

introducing  explanations. 

"Can't  come?"  said  the  gentleman  in  a  tone  that 
might  have  meant  amusement  or  disappointment,  or, 
maybe,  both.  "Got  an  important  engagement,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Billy  did  not  understand  the  words  and  he  did  not 
like  the  tone. 

"You  see "  he  began  again — and  stopped  help- 
lessly. 

He  had  promised  the  beautiful  lady  to  keep  the  "gar- 
den days"  a  secret.  He  thought  for  a  moment.  "But 
I  could  come  with  you  in  the  afternoon,"  he  said  kindly 
and  eagerly. 


24  KIDDIES 

The  gentleman  laughed,  and  somehow  Billy  laughed 
also,  though  he  didn't  know  why. 

"Well,"  said  the  former,  "I  don't  usually  go  out 
in  the  afternoon,  but  we  might  manage  to  have  an 
hour  to-morrow,  from  three  till  four.  Only  you're  not 
to  tell — oh,  well,  never  mind  about  that!  Be  ready 
at  three." 

"Yes,  sir;  yes — please  what  is  your  name?" 

"My  name,  little  chap,  is  Henry  Denver." 

Billy  gravely  nodded. 

"Yes,  Henry  Denver;  I'll  be  ready  at  three,  'cause 
I  like  you  awful" 

"My  dear  little  chap!" 

They  passed  the  gates;  the  car  stopped.  Sir  Henry 
got  out  and  lifted  Billy  to  the  steps.  Billy  promptly 
kissed  him,  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  to  do.  Sir  Henry  turned  away  quickly  and 
examined  a  back  tyre. 

"No,"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur  presently,  "it's  all 
right."  He  got  in  and  waved  his  hand.  "Good-bye, 
Billy!" 

"Good-bye — Henry  Denver!"  cried  the  boy  cheer- 
fully. 

The  lodge-keeper  paused  in  closing  one  of  the  gates, 
and  gaped  at  his  nephew.  But  no  words  came,  and 
he  completed  his  business  a  dazed  man. 

"Let  be!"  said  his  wife,  when  he  told  his  tale.  "It 
near  killed  her  when  her  own  boy  came,  and  it  near 
killed  them  both  when  he  went." 

Such  was  the  first  of  Billy's  motor  rides. 

"Billy,"  said  Sir  Henry  one  day,  "why  can't  you 
always  come  when  I  ask  you?" 

Billy  wriggled  uncomfortably. 

"Rather  not  say?" 

Billy  nodded  and  squeezed   the  strong  arm.     He 


LITTLE  BOY  25 

would  have  liked  to  explain  that  he  never  mentioned 
his  motor  rides  to  the  beautiful  lady. 

Sir  Henry  nodded  also. 

"I  respect  your  reasons,  whatever  they  may  be,  for 
secrecy,  old  man." 

He  knew  the  wife  of  his  lodge-keeper  to  be  a  woman 
of  fixed  ideas;  doubtless  she  had  duties  for  the  boy 
to  perform  on  certain  days.  He  was  not  going  to  in- 
terfere— just  yet. 

"You  called  it  a  'portant  engagement,"  said  Billy. 

"Did  I  ?  Well,  Billy,  it's  for  both  of  us  to  remem- 
ber that  gentlemen  do  not  inquire  into  each  other's 
'portant  engagements." 

Which  remark  was  Greek  to  Billy,  though  he  liked 
the  voice  that  made  it. 

"But  I  could  come  with  you  day  after  to-morrow, 
Henry  Denver,"  he  said  graciously. 

in 

In  the  summer-house,  Lady  Denver  looked  at  the 
watch  on  her  wrist  for  the  fifth  time.  Ten  minutes 
to  twelve.  She  gave  a  straightening  touch  to  a  snowy 
napkin  covering  a  dish  of  fruit  and  another  of  sweet 
biscuits  on  the  small  round  table,  glanced  at  an  open 
locker  containing  battledores  and  shuttlecocks,  a  bow 
with  arrows  and  folding  target,  a  little  gun,  a  box  of 
"alphabet  bricks,"  and  other  toys,  and  stepped  out  into 
the  sunshine.  She  walked  slowly  round  the  centre  bed 
of  the  garden.  The  "white  lilies"  had  gone,  but  other 
white  flowers  had  been  given  their  place.  In  a  little 
while  she  halted  and  stood  watching  the  iron  gate. 
Presently  she  went  down  to  the  gate.  She  tried  the 
handle  to  make  sure  that  she  had  turned  the  key  an 
hour  earlier.  Of  course  it  opened.  But  even  had 
it  been  locked  Billy  would  not  have  gone  away  without 


26  KIDDIES 

calling  her,  and  she  had  been  listening  during  her  brief 
stay  in  the  summer-house.  No,  Billy  had  not  come, 
and — it  looked  as  though  he  were  not  coming. 

She  leaned  against  the  gate,  her  eyes  on  the  path 
into  the  wood.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  failed  to 
come  at  the  hour  appointed;  frequently  he  had  been 
waiting  at  the  gate  for  her — the  gate  which  before  his 
first  coming  she  had  thought  never  to  open  again.  Even 
now  it  cost  her  a  pang  to  open  it,  but  a  dear  sense 
of  solace  followed  the  pang.  For  it  was  like  opening 
her  heart  to  gladness,  though  sadness  held  the  chief 
chamber,  and  would  do  so  always. 

The  wood  and  the  path  became  blurred  to  her  eyes. 
Why  had  the  little  boy  not  come?  Perhaps  he  had 
grown  tired  of  her ;  perhaps  he  had  found  a  new  friend, 
a  boy  friend,  to  play  with.  And  yet  he  had  clung  to 
her  at  their  parting  yesterday.  Even  yet  she  felt  the 
clutch  of  the  small  hands,  the  contact  of  the  lithe  young 
body.  Oh,  God,  was  even  the  second  best  and  loveliest 
thing  in  her  woman's  world  to  be  taken  from  her? 
Perhaps  something  had  happened  to  Billy!  At  the 
thought  her  eyes  became  clear,  her  relaxed  muscles 
stiffened.  She  must  go  at  once  to  the  lodge,  and 

She  turned  quickly.  The  door  in  the  opposite  wall 
had  opened  and  closed,  and  her  husband  was  coming 
down  the  garden.  She  leaned  back  against  the  gate. 
Her  husband  had  not  entered  her  garden  for  nearly 
two  years — not  since  that  September  day  when  he 
and  she  and  Another  had  played  together  on  the  centre 
plot,  then  grass.  For  while  women  cling  to  sorrowful 
associations,  men  seek  to  avoid  them. 

She  perceived  that  he  looked  uneasily  from  one  side 
to  the  other.  Had  he  discovered  her  secret,  she  won- 
dered— the  only  secret  she  had  had  from  him  in  their 
eight  years  of  married  life?  And,  if  so,  what  would 


LITTLE  BOY  27 

he  think  of  her?  With  all  his  gentleness  and  tender- 
ness, might  he  not  feel  harshly  about  this  thing  she  had 
done  ?  As  he  caught  sight  of  her  she  succeeded  in  forc- 
ing a  smile  to  her  lips,  but  for  the  life  of  her  she  could 
not  leave  the  gate  and  go  to  meet  him. 

He  smiled  also,  but  not  naturally.  There  was  a 
look  on  his  face  that  she  had  not  observed  for  nearly 
two  years,  a  look  of  anxiety  tinged  with  excitement — 
almost  the  look  that  doctors  know  on  the  faces  of 
men  about  to  be  fathers,  or  in  danger  of  losing  their 
fatherhood.  Sadness  and  loving  solicitude — these  had 
been  the  expressions  of  her  husband's  face  most  famil- 
iar to  her  during  that  period ;  but  this  look Sud- 
denly she  became  calm.  Whatever  Harry  had  to  say 
to  her,  it  could  be  nothing  that  would  hurt.  Indeed, 
as  he  drew  nearer,  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  come 
to  ask  a  favour. 

"Lydia,"  he  said — he  examined  the  end  of  a  cigar 
which  had  gone  out  some  time  ago,  and  then  raised  his 
eyes  to  hers — "Lydia,  you  must  wonder  at  seeing  me 
here,  but  I — I  had  to  come.  There  is — possibly  you 
know — a  little  boy  staying  at  the  lodge  at  present. 
Martin  is  his  uncle.  This  morning  he  was  climbing  a 
tree  behind  the  lodge" — Lady  Denver  gave  a  gasp — 
"when  he  fell.  His  left  arm  was  rather  badly,  broken. 
I  brought  the  doctor  in  the  car.  He  is  now  with  the 
boy — had  put  him  right  just  before  I  left.  Have  I 
frightened  you,  Lydia?" 

"No,  no — just  a  little — go  on,  Harry." 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  there  isn't  much  accommodation, 
convenience,  and  so  on  at  the  lodge  for  such  a  case — 

and  I  wondered  if  we  couldn't  have  him  removed 
.  » 

"Not  the  hospital,  Harry — not  the  hospital." 

"No,  dear — to  the  house.    Would  you  mind?    Er — 


28  KIDDIES 

could  you  stand  it?  He's  a  nice  little  chap — I've 
taken  him  in  the  car  once  or  twice — perhaps  oftener — 
and  he's — er — all  right.  His  parents  are  dead.  His 
mother  was  a  sister  of  Martin's,  who  might  have  been 
a  great  singer,  and — er — his  father,  I've  learned,  was 
born  a  gentleman,  though — but  do  you  think  we  could 
manage  it,  Lydia?"  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
"It  shall  be  just  as  you  wish,"  he  added. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  she  caught  his  hand. 
"Come  with  me  for  a  minute,"  she  said  faintly,  and 
led  him  to  the  summer-house. 

"Look!"  she  whispered.  "These  belong  to  the  lit- 
tle boy  you  speak  of,  Harry.  All  the  summer  he  has 
been  coming  here  nearly  every  morning.  The  first 
time  I  saw  him  he  was  lying  at  the  gate,  crying  for 
his — mother.  Oh,  Harry,  I  couldn't  help  it!  I  want- 
ed to  tell  you,  but  somehow  I  couldn't.  I  feared  you 
might  think  I  had  forgotten  our  own  little  boy,  our 
Freddie;  or  that  I  was  not  content  in  my  life  with 
you.  Oh,  I  didn't  know  what  you  would  think  at  all. 
And  Billy  just  seemed  to  take  possession.  He  didn't 
take  another's  place,  Harry — you  know  that,  don't 
you  ? — but  just  a  little  place  of  his  own." 

Denver's  arm  went  round  his  wife.  His  eyes  were 
wet. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  said  softly.  "The  little  chap 
did  the  same  to  me — and  I  couldn't  tell  you,  Lydia. 
He  and  I  know  each  other  so  well  that  he  calls  me 
Henry  Denver,  and  sometimes — er — he  hugs  me." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  glad!"  she  murmured.  "It 
doesn't  make  us  love  Freddie  or  each  other  the  less, 
does  it?" 

Denver  cleared  his  throat. 

"I  asked  the  doctor  to  wait,"  he  said.  "Will  you 
come  with  me,  Lydia?" 


LITTLE  BOY  29 

A  little  later  they  took  the  path  through  the  wood. 

Billy  lay  at  the  window  of  a  lovely  room  overlooking 
the  gardens,  and  the  beautiful  lady  sat  beside  him. 

"Doctor  Stark  says  you  may  get  up  for  a  little  while 
to-morrow,"  she  was  saying.  "And  next  week  we 
are  all  going  to  Barradale." 

"Where  is  Barradale?" 

"Away  in  the  North.  We  always  go  there  in  the 
autumn,  you  know.  At  least,  nearly  always." 

"Have  you  got  a  house  there  too?" 

"Yes,  Billy." 

Billy  lay  quiet  awhile,  marvelling  at  the  possession 
of  two  houses. 

"Where  is  Henry  Denver?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "He 
said  he  would  come,  back  soon." 

"So  he  will,  dearie.    Ah,  I  see  him  coming  now!" 

Billy  looked  out  of  the  window  and  waved  his  free 
hand. 

"He's  looking  happy,"  he  remarked. 

"Are  you  sure,  Billy?" 

The  beautiful  lady's  voice  was  eager.  She  rose  and 
went  to  the  window. 

"It's  all  right,"  called  her  husband. 

The  lady  bent  over  Billy  and  kissed  him. 

"My  dear,  dear  little  boy,"  she  whispered. 

"What,  mother?" 

Sir  Henry  entered  quickly. 

"I've  fixed  it,"  he  said  to  his  wife  in  an  undertone; 
"but  I  was  sorry  for  the  Martins.  I  hadn't  imagined 
the  woman  had  much  in  the  way  of  feelings.  Poor 
soul,  I  left  her  scrubbing  the  kitchen  table  with  her 
tears." 

He  turned  to  the  boy. 

"Old  chap,"  he  said  briskly,  yet  anxiously,  "how 
would  you  like  to  live  with  us  always?" 


30  KIDDIES 

"Yes,  Billy  dear,"  softly  added  the  beautiful  lady, 
"how  would  you  like  to  live  with  us  always?" 

Her  hand  trembled. 

Billy  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  amazed  at 
the  question. 

"Of  course  I'm  goin'  to  live  with  you  always!" 


WITH  an  agonised  contortion  of  countenance  the 
middle-aged  woman  hurried  towards  the  small  boy 
who,  having  escaped  her  vigilance  a  minute  previously, 
was  not  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  pier,  his  hands  in 
his  trousers'  pockets. 

"John,"  she  gasped,  laying  a  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
"come  awa'  frae  there,  or  ye'll  fa'  in  an'  get 
droondit." 

"I'll  no'  fa'  in,"  he  returned  impatiently. 

"Oh,  but  ye're  ower  near  the  edge,  John.  Ye  micht 
trip  an'  fa'  in,  an'  then  what  wud  ye  dae?" 

"Get  saved,"  said  John,  endeavouring  to  shake  off 
her  hand. 

"Aw,  but  ye  best  come  back  a  bit,  John,  ye  best 
come  back  a  wee  bit,  an'  be  ready  for  the  boat  when 
it  comes." 

"The  boat'll  no'  be  in  for  ages,"  he  returned,  stand- 
ing on  one  foot  and  swinging  the  other. 

"John,  John,  for  ony  favour  dinna  dae  that,  or  ye'll 
tummle  in,  as  sure  as " 

"If  I  tummle  in,  it'll  be  your  fault.  Ye're  pushin' 
me!" 

"I'm  no'!  I'm  strivin'  for  to  haud  ye  back.  Oh, 
dear  me!  I'll  never  tak'  ye  to  the  sea  again,  never, 
though  yer  mither  was  to  gang  doon  on  her  bended 
knees  an'  ask  me  to  dae  'it.  Can  ye  no'  be  nice  an' 
quate  like  wee  Agnes?"  she  inquired,  with  a  brief 


32  KIDDIES 

backward  glance  at  a  small  girl  with  a  fairly  con- 
tented and  very  sticky  countenance,  nursing  a  shabby 
doll.  "See  hoo  discreet  yer  wee  sister  is,  John." 

"She's  discreet  because  she's  fed  up,"  remarked  John 
unkindly.  He  gave  a  wriggle,  and  she  emitted  a  low 
wail  of  dismay. 

"John,  came  awa'  wi'  me  this  instant!" 

"I'm  fine  here." 

"John,"  she  said  solemnly,  "what  wud  ye  dae  if  ye 
fell  in  the  ocean?" 

"There's  nae  ocean  here.  There's  nae  ocean  till  ye 
pass  Rothesay.  Fayther  tell't  me." 

"Aweel,  it's  jist  as  easy  gettin'  droondit  at  Kilmun 
as  at  Rothesay,  John.  But " 

"It's  easier  to  get  droondit  at  Rothesay.  There's 
mair  water." 

"Never  heed  that  the  noo.  What  wud  ye  dae  if 
ye  fell  aff  the  pier  an'  a  big  fish  got  the  haud  o'  ye?" 
Aunt  Sarah  put  the  question,  and  paused  for  an  answer, 
not  without  hope. 

John  transferred  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the 
other,  and  started  swinging  the  former. 

"What  sort  o'  a  fish,  Aunt  Sarah?"  he  coldly  in- 
quired. 

"A  big  fish — a  great  big  fish — a  whale,  maybe!" 
she  replied  in  impressive  tones. 

A  smile  of  pity  dawned  on  John's  face.  "Did  ye 
ever  see  a  whale  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  ken  it's  a  fearsome  thing,  onywey.  I  wudna  like 
a  whale  to  get  the  haud  o'  me." 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  whale  here,  at  Kilmun?" 

"No'  exactly,  John,  no'  exactly." 

"An'  ye  never  will!"  said  John.  "There's  nae  big 
fish  here,  Aunt  Sarah.  Ye  needna  try  to  cod  me. 
I'm  no'  sae  easy  coddit." 

Sarah  restrained  her  rising  temper.     "Weel, 


ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  AN  AUNT   33 

ma  lad,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  sternness,  "I'm 
no'  wantin'  to  gang  hame  an'  tell  yer  mither  I  left  ye 
in  a  watery  grave.  So  jist " 

"But  if  I  was  fa'in'  in,  ye  wudna  leave  me  in,  wud 
ye?" 

"Ay,  wud  I!"  she  replied,  irritated  by  the  imperti- 
nence. 

"Wud  ye?  Then  ye  wud  get  the  polis!  Ay,  ye 
wud  be  put  in  jail  an'  hanged!  That's  what  ye  wud 
get!" 

Aunt  Sarah  swallowed  several  times.  "If  ever  I  tak' 
ye  a  trip  again,  may  I  be " 

"Supposin'  there  was  really  a  whale,"  interrupted 
John,  "an'  supposin'  it  got  the  haud  o'  me,  wud  it  no' 
let  me  oot  efter  three  days,  like  Jonah?" 

At  last  Aunt  Sarah  saw  an  opportunity  to  impress 
her  young  charge.  Very  solemnly  she  said : 

"Na,  John.    It  wud  never  let  ye  oot  again." 

"Eh?" 

"Because,  John,  ye  had  been  bad  an'  disobedient, 
an' " 

"So  was  Jonah." 

"Ah,  but — but,  ye  see,  John — Jonah  repentit,"  said 
Aunt  Sarah  rather  feebly. 

"He  what?" 

"He  repentit — he  was  sorry." 

"I  could  repent  too,"  said  John,  without  hesitation. 

Though  the  weather  was  chilly,  Aunt  Sarah  took 
out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
her  brow. 

A  short  silence  was  followed  by  a  query  from  the 
boy.  "What  was  Jonah  daein'  when  he  was  in  the 
whale?  D'ye  think  he  wud  be  standin'  up,  or  sittin', 
or  lyin'  doon?" 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  John!  That's  no'  a  seemly  ques- 
tion to  be  askin*.  Come  awa'  noo,  an'  we'll  see  what 


34  KIDDIES 

wee  Agnes  is  daein',"  said  Aunt  Sarah  gently  and 
persuasively. 

"She's  no'  daein'  onything." 

"Weel,  come  wi'  me.  I'm  no'  gaun  to  let  you  stan' 
there." 

"What  wey?" 

"Come,  John!  See  hoo  guid  yer  wee  sister  is,  stand- 
in'  where  she  was  tell't  to  stan',  an'  never  sayin'  a 
word.  Come,  John." 

"Agnes  is  gaun  to  be  sea-sick  on  the  boat,"  John 
remarked,  turning  and  eyeing  his  sister  with  unwonted 
interest.  "Ye  shouldna  ha'e  let  her  eat  twa  rhubart 
terts,  Aunt  Sarah." 

"We  Agnes  is  fine,"  returned  Aunt  Sarah,  who 
had  given  Agnes  an  extra  tart  for  being  "a  good 
girl." 

"She'll  no'  be  vera  fine  when  she's  on  the  boat." 

Aunt  Sarah  tried  not  to  feel  anxious.  "It's  no* 
stormy,"  she  declared. 

"It  doesna  need  to  be  stormy  for  Agnes.  She  aye 
gets  bad  wi'  pastry." 

"John,"  cried  the  aunt  reprovingly,  "it's  no'  nice 
o'ye  to  speak  like  that  aboot  yer  wee  sister.  A  body 
wud  think  ye  wud  like  to  see  her  sea-sick." 

"I  like  seein'  folk  sea-sick.  I  never  get  sick.  But 
if  Agnes  doesna  get  bad  on  the  boat,  she'll  be  bad  on 
the  train.  She  canna  help  it.  Ye  shouldna  ha'e  gi'ed 
her  twa  rhubart  terts,  Aunt  Sarah." 

"Ye're  an  impiddent  wee  rascal!"  exclaimed  the 
poor  woman.  "Come  awa' !  See !  Thonder  the  boat 
comin'." 

"That's  no'  oor  boat.  Oor  boat  has  a  rid  funnel," 
returned  John,  as,  at  last,  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
dragged  in  his  sister's  direction. 

Wee  Agnes  was  certainly  not  looking  too  happy. 

"Weel,  Agnes,"  said  her  aunt  brightly,  "ye'll  sune 


ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  AN  AUNT   35 

be  on  the  road  hame  noo.  Ye're  enjoyin'  yersel',  are 
ye  no'?" 

"Ay,"  faltered  Agnes. 

"Ye're  tellin'  a  story!"  remarked  John. 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  John !"  said  his  aunt  indignantly, 
"I  didna  gi'e  her  mair  to  eat  nor  she  wantit — did  I, 
Agnes  ?'< 

Agnes  nodded  and  shook  her  head. 

"Ye're  haudin'  yer  doll  upside  doon,"  John  ob- 
served. "Ye'll  gi'e  it  water  on  the  heid,  Agnes." 

Agnes  endeavoured  to  smile. 

"Ha'e  ye  a  pain?"  he  inquired. 

"Uh-ha,"  she  admitted. 

John  gave  her  a  look  of  sympathy,  then  turned 
triumphantly  to  his  aunt. 

"Itell'tye!"hecried. 

Aunt  Sarah  looked  distressed.  "Where's  the  pain, 
dearie?"  she  gently  asked.  "Is't  in  yer  heid?" 

Agnes  hesitated  a  moment  or  two.  "It's — it's  ablow 
ma  pinny,"  she  whispered  bashfully. 

"That's  the  pastry,"  said  John,  and  turned  away. 

Aunt  Sarah  was  too  much  disturbed  about  Agnes 
to  follow  him  just  then.  She  set  herself  to  comfort 
the  sufferer  with  kind  and  encouraging  words  and 
promises  of  certain  rewards  immediately  on  reaching 
Glasgow. 

"Try  to  forget  aboot  it,  dearie,"  she  whispered. 
"Dinna  brood  on  it  when  ye're  on  the  boat  an'  the 
train." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Agnes  bravely. 

"An'  we'll  gang  doon  to  the  saloon,"  said  her  aunt, 
"an'  I'll  tell  ye  stories,  an' " 

Just  then  there  was  a  loud  splash  followed  by  a 
cry.  Aunt  Sarah  screeched  and  looked  about  her. 
There  was  no  one  visible  on  the  end  of  the  pier  save 
Agnes  and  herself. 


36  KIDDIES 

"Oh,  where's  John?"  she  cried,  and  rushed  to  the 
edge. 

"Kee-hoy!"  yelled  a  voice  behind  her,  and  there 
was  John  in  the  little  signal-box  at  the  corner. 

Aunt  Sarah  turned  on  him,  her  mouth  shaped  to 
scream  "Help!" 

"Oh,  John!"  she  gasped  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
tense relief,  "I  thocht  ye  was  awa'!" 

John  laughed  uproariously. 

"What  was  the  splash?"  she  demanded,  getting 
angry. 

Her  nephew  pointed  to  a  heap  of  bricks  on  the  pier. 
"I  thocht  I  wud  gi'e  ye  a  start."  And  he  went  into 
a  fresh  fit  of  delight. 

Aunt  Sarah  threw  her  arms  heavenward.  "Never 
again,"  she  cried,  "never  again  will  I  tak'  ither  folks' 
weans  to  the  coast." 

An  elderly  and  rather  stout  lady  approached  her 
as  she  was  dragging  John  toward  the  middle  of  the 
pier. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  remarked  pleasantly,  "your  little 
boy  is  rather  obstreperous.  Still,  you  know,  we  must 
make  allowances " 

John  stared  stonily,  and  interrupted  the  remark  with : 

"I'm  no'  her  little  boy." 

So  impudent  was  his  expression  that  the  elderly 
lady's  geniality  failed  her,  her  conversation  dried  up, 
and  she  hurried  away  from  the  group. 

"A  whale  wud  be  glad  to  get  her"  said  John  au- 
dibly. 

Aunt  Sarah's  fingers  itched  to  box  his  ears. 

"I'll  tell  yer  fayther  aboot  this!"  she  muttered 
wrathfully.  "He'll  sort  ye!" 

"What  for?" 

"What  for?  ye  wee  rascal!  Fine  ye  ken  what  for! 
Oh,  ye  bad  boy! — ye  bad,  bad  boy!" 


ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  AN  AUNT   37 

"Ye'll  mak'  Agnes  greet,"  he  said  warningly.  And, 
sure  enough,  the  little  girl's  lip  was  quivering  omi- 
nously. 

"Agnes  is  affrontit  at  ye — she's  ashamed  o'  her 
brither.  Are  ye  no',  Agnes?"  said  Aunt  Sarah,  patting 
the  child's  shoulder. 

Agnes  shook  her  head.  "I'm  no'  likin'  ye  to  scold 
him,"  she  mumbled. 

The  distracted  aunt  heaved  a  sigh  of  despair  and 
applied  her  handkerchief  to  her  forehead. 

"Never  again! — never  again!"  she  murmured. 

The  steamer  came  in  at  last.  About  a  dozen  pas- 
sengers were  by  this  time  waiting  to  embark.  Aunt 
Sarah  insisted  upon  John's  entering  the  gangway  im- 
mediately in  front  of  her.  She  did  not  wish  to  lose 
sight  of  him.  Directly  ahead  of  John  was  the  lady 
who  had  once  been  genial.  John  took  the  opportunity 
to  pin  to  her  skirts  a  discarded  label,  imprinted  with 
the  words  "Returned  Empty,"  which  he  had  picked 
from  the  quay. 

"Come  on,  Agnes,  an'  I'll  chase  ye,"  he  said  when 
they  reached  the  deck. 

But  Agnes  was  not  equal  to  being  chased. 

"YeVe  got  to  come  doon  to  the  saloon,"  said  Aunt 
Sarah. 

"Nae  fears,"  said  John.  "I'm  guan  to  the  neb  o' 
the  boat  to  watch  it  scooshin'  through  the  water." 

"Ye  are  not." 

"I  am  sot!" 

"Boy,"  exclaimed  a  dignified,  military-looking  gentle- 
man, "obey  your  mother!" 

"She's  no'  ma  mither!"  retorted  John  as  he  dodged 
round  the  corner  of  the  ticket  office.  "Sold  again, 
tin  whiskers!" 

It  is  highly  probable  that  the  dignified,  military- 
looking  gentleman  wished  he  hadn't  spoken. 


38  KIDDIES 

Aunt  Sarah  lost  her  head  and  gave  chase  to  her 
nephew.  Luckily  for  her,  he  slipped  and  fell  on  the 
iron  plates  surrounding  the  funnel.  She  seized  him 
and  dragged  him  struggling  across  the  deck  and  down 
the  stair  leading  to  the  fore  saloon.  Agnes  followed, 
weeping  bitterly  and  exclaiming,  "Dinna  hurt  him! 
Oh,  please,  dinna  hurt  him!" 

The  voyage  lasted  little  over  half  an  hour,  but  dur- 
ing that  period  John  managed  to  escape  at  least  ten 
times,  to  the  utter  exhaustion  of  his  aunt,  who  fled 
wildly  after  him,  breathing  threats  and  prayers  on 
every  occasion. 

"Never  again! — never  again!"  repeated  Aunt  Sarah 
to  herself,  when,  after  further  anxieties  and  terrors, 
she  found  herself  and  her  charges  on  board  the  train. 
"Never  again  will  I  tak'  onything  to  dae  wi'  anither 
woman's  brats,  even  supposin'  they  are  ma  sister's," 
she  reflected.  ''  'Deed,  I  think  Bessie  should  be  black 
ashamed  o'  herself  to  ha'e  brocht  a  wean  up  like  that 
John.  I'm  done  wi'  him,  onywey." 

They  had  the  compartment  to  themselves,  and  for  a 
space  John  kept  things  lively,  but  at  last,  somewhat 
to  his  aunt's  surprise,  he  obliged  her  by  taking  a  seat 
between  her  and  the  window. 

The  train  rumbled  on.  Agnes  snuggled  into  the 
shelter  of  her  aunt's  right  arm,  hugging  her  doll  and 
humming  a  little  drowsy  tune  to  herself. 

"Ye're  feelin'  better,  dearie?"  asked  her  aunt. 

"Uh-ha,"  Agnes  replied  contentedly. 

Aunt  Sarah  closed  her  eyes.   She  was  more  than  tired. 

"Never  again! — never  again!"  she  sighed. 

After  a  little  while  she  glanced  at  the  boy,  who  was 
so  quiet  that  she  suspected  some  fresh  mischief.  But 
John's  head  was  laid  back  against  the  coarse  upholstery 
and  his  eyes  were  shut,  the  lids  very  white  on  the  cheeks 
that  the  keen  spring  air  had  reddened. 


ADVANTAGES  OF  BEING  AN  AUNT   39 

"It's  a  mercy  he's  quate  at  last!"  she  said  to  herself. 
"The  wee  brat!" 

Presently  John  slipped  toward  her  till  his  head  lay 
against  her  arm. 

"The  wee  brat!"  thought  Aunt  Sarah.  "An'  to 
look  at  him  noo  a  body  wud  think  he  was  a — a  angel. 
He  doesna  look  extra  comfortable,"  she  reflected  a  little 
later.  "His  neck's  twisted-like." 

So  she  moved  her  arm  very  cautiously  and  made  him 
as  comfortable  as  she  could. 

As  the  train  entered  Glasgow,  John,  still  rubbing 
his  eyes,  nudged  his  aunt. 

"Here!"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Eh  ?"  She  inclined  her  ear  toward  him.  It  sud- 
denly occurred  to  her  that  he  was  going  to  say  he  was 
sorry.  "What  dae  ye  want  to  tell  me,  John?"  she 
asked  encouragingly  and  gently. 

"I've  decidit  no'  to  tell  on  ye  for  gi'ein'  Agnes  the 
twa  rhubart  terts." 


IV 
THE  GOOD  FAIRY 

THE  door  of  the  junior  schoolroom  was  almost  closed, 
and  for  a  few  moments  the  small  boy  writh  the  red 
head  and  the  brown  suit  a  good  size  too  big  for  him 
listened  at  the  aperture.  Then  with  the  utmost  cau- 
tion he  pushed  it  open  and  peeped  in.  Nobody  there! 
His  expression  of  anxiety  gave  place  to  that  of  relief. 
He  was  in  time  after  all! 

With  stealthy  strides  he  tip-toed  across  the  floor  to 
the  teacher's  desk.  His  left  hand  raised  the  lid  and 
held  it  up  while  his  right  transferred  something  seem- 
ingly fragile  from  his  jacket  pocket  to  the  interior. 
For  a  brief  space  he  gazed  at  it,  half  satisfied,  half  re- 
luctant, then  gently  closed  the  lid  and  strolled  over  to 
the  hearth,  where  he  proceeded  to  chafe  his  hands  in  a 
manner  that  suggested  nervousness,  if  not  guilt.  His 
classmates  began  to  drop  in.  He  received  his  particu- 
lar friends  genially  enough,  yet  latterly  with  something 
like  condescension. 

Ten  minutes  later  school  began,  and  not  long  after- 
wards Miss  Hamilton,  the  teacher,  had  occasion  to 
apply  to  her  desk.  The  red-haired  boy,  whose  name 
was  John,  watched  her  with  a  sort  of  fascination.  His 
lips  were  parted;  he  breathed  quickly.  His  ringers 
gripped  the  seat  of  the  form,  one  of  his  rather  thin 
legs  was  tensely  twisted  round  the  other.  He  was  go- 
ing through  an  experience  not  new,  yet  one  which  had 
become  more  exciting  with  each  repetition.  Would 
Miss  Hamilton  speak  this  time?  Would  she  disclose 
40 


THE  GOOD  FAIRY  41 

the  thing  of  which  he  alone  could  tell  the  secret?  He 
feared  she  would  ...  he  feared  she  wouldn't.  .  .  . 

Above  the  desk-lid  Miss  Hamilton  smiled  to  herself, 
and  he  wriggled ;  he  almost  squealed.  Then,  still  smil- 
ing, she  let  down  the  lid.  It  was  all  over !  She  wasn't 
going  to  say  anything.  Was  he  relieved  or  disap- 
pointed? Possibly  both.  The  strain  relaxed  only  to 
spring  taut  again.  For  stay!  She  was  lifting  the  lid 
again!  .  .  .  Oh,  my,  she  was  taking  out  something! 
It  was — it  was  his  secret! 

Miss  Hamilton  was  quite  young  as  well  as  pretty, 
and  she  let  out  a  little  giggle  as  she  held  up,  in  full  view 
of  the  classes,  an  egg — a  fine,  big,  delicately  browned 
hen's  egg!  Several  little  boys  laughed  aloud. 

"Really,"  said  Miss  Hamilton,  "I  must  know  who 
the  good  fairy  is!" 

As  for  John,  he  glowed  with  self-consciousness  and 
shuddered  with  ecstasy.  A  Good  Fairy!  Assuredly 
he  was  not  used  to  being  called  names  like  that. 

Miss  Hamilton  continued:  "This  is  the  sixth  morn- 
ing within  a  fortnight  that  I  have  found  a  splendid 
new-laid  egg  in  my  desk;  and  we  all  know  how  scarce 
and  dear  eggs  are  at  this  season.  Well,  I  am  not  going 
to  ask  the  good  fairy  to  stand  up  just  now,  but  I  hope 
that  she — or  he" — obviously  an  afterthought — "will 
speak  to  me  at  the  close  of  school  to-day,  for,  as  you 
know,  it  is  horrid  not  to  be  able  to  say  'thank  you,'  es- 
pecially when  one  wants  to  say  it  as  much  as  I  do. 
And,  as  you  also  know,  we  break  up  to-morrow  for  our 
Christmas  holidays.  .  .  .  And  now  we  must  get  on 
with  our  lessons." 

John's  state  of  bliss  lasted  until  the  afternoon,  when 
he  fell  to  wondering  what  Miss  Hamilton  would  say  to 
him  at  the  end  of  school.  He  hoped  she  would  not  ask 
a  certain  question.  After  all,  he  thought  it  would  be 
better  to  see  her,  if  possible,  without  the  others 


42  KIDDIES 

knowing.  He  decided  that  he  would  hide  somewhere 
and  waylay  Miss  Hamilton  after  she  had  left  the 
school. 

Alas  for  his  hopes  and  plans!  In  the  last  hour  Miss 
Hamilton  received  a  telegram  telling  her  that  some  one 
was  coming  to  see  her,  and  the  instant  her  duties  were 
finished  she  hurried  away  to  the  station,  with  spark- 
ling eyes  and  unwontedly  warm  complexion,  but  with- 
out the  slightest  remembrance  of  the  Good  Fairy. 

John  was  grievously  cast  down  until,  on  his  way 
home,  a  happy  thought  came  to  him.  On  the  morrow 
he  would  just  put  another  egg  in  her  desk,  and  that 
would  surely  remind  her,  and  everything  would  be 
all  right! 

Yet  there's  many  a  slip — even  for  good  fairies. 

John  lived  with  an  aunt  and  uncle  in  a  cottage  about 
a  mile  outside  the  village.  For  nearly  a  year  that  had 
been  his  home.  If  he  regretted  the  loss  of  his  parents, 
he  never  showed  it.  Certainly  they  had  not  been  par- 
ticularly estimable  people,  and  John  was  a  curiously 
self-contained  youngster.  On  the  other  hand,  his  aunt 
and  uncle  were  undeniably  worthy  people.  If  they  had 
not  welcomed  the  orphan  with  cordiality,  they  had,  at 
least,  striven  to  do  what  they  deemed  their  duty 
towards  him.  But  they  were  a  deplorably  solemn 
pair  for  a  little  boy  to  live  with — especially  Aunt 
Brown.  Uncle  Brown  occasionally  gave  feeble  evi- 
dence that  his  suppression  was  not  utterly  complete. 
He  was  an  essentially  mild  man,  whereas  his  wife  was 
uncompromisingly  stern  in  all  her  ways. 

It  was  morning  in  the  cottage.  The  frost  had  gone, 
the  snow  had  come  in  force.  Outside  it  was  scarcely 


THE  GOOD  FAIRY  43 

yet  light.  A  lamp  illuminated  the  kitchen,  a  model 
of  austere  orderliness. 

Mrs.  Brown  looked  hard  at  her  nephew,  who  was 
making  to  rise  from  the  breakfast-table. 

"Feenish  yer  parritch,"  she  commanded. 

"I  canna." 

"Sit  still  an'  feenish  it!"  She  glanced  up  at  the 
clock.  "Ye're  far  ower  early  for  the  schule." 

"I'm  no'  hungry,"  said  John,  with  a  glance  of  appeal 
in  the  direction  of  his  uncle,  who  was  stolidly  absorb- 
ing an  enormous  mass  of  nutriment. 

"Snap  it  up!  Wasters  come  to  want."  Mrs. 
Brown  had  a  great  store  of  proverbs,  all  of  a  more  or 
less  cheerless  nature. 

"It'll  keep  oot  the  cauld,  John,"  said  his  uncle, 
scarcely  pausing. 

Excitement,  apprehension,  and  other  emotions  had 
ruined  the  boy's  appetite  for  this  morning,  yet  his  aunt's 
will  was  law.  He  forced  himself  to  "make  a  clean 
plate" — then  rose. 

"I've  tell't  ye,  ye  dinna  need  to  leave  sae  early,"  his 
aunt  said  sharply. 

"Ay,  I  need,"  he  returned,  the  least  thing  rebel- 
liously. 

Mr.  Brown  interposed  unexpectedly.  "Let  him 
gang.  He'll  ha'e  some  ploy  on.  It's  the  day  afore 
the  holidays." 

For  once  the  woman  did  not  argue.  With  an  im- 
patient and  indistinct  remark  about  the  folly  of  holi- 
days, she  went  over  to  the  hearth,  and  John,  with  a 
grateful  glance  at  his  uncle,  who  was  once  more  too 
busy  to  notice  it,  hustled  into  his  coat,  seized  his  bag, 
and  went  out. 

In  the  snowy  half  light  he  made  his  way  round  to 
the  hen-house.  Mrs.  Brown  kept  only  a  few  fowls, 
but  they  were  prize  ones  and  her  greatest  pride.  Every 


44  KIDDIES 

egg  was  a  personal  triumph  as  well  as  an  item  of  profit. 
Lately  she  had  sold  a  dozen  to  the  Manse  at  the  great 
price  of  three  shillings! 

John  unlatched  the  door  and — hesitated.  He  hated 
that  gloomy,  cobwebby  interior,  and  being  town-bred, 
he  was  not  a  little  afraid  of  the  creatures  he  could 
scarcely  see.  But  he  had  braved  it  all  before  for  Miss 
Hamilton's  sake,  and  now  it  would  be  for  his  own  sake 
as  well,  for  he  did  greatly  desire  that  she  should  know, 
ere  she  went  away  for  the  holidays,  who  the  Good 
Fairy  really  was.  So  presently  he  was  inside,  and  be- 
ginning, very  gingerly,  to  feel  in  the  nests. 

In  the  murkiest  corner  he  touched  feathers,  and  a  big 
yellow  hen,  with  a  fearsome  cackle,  flew  over  his 
shoulder  and  out  of  doors,  to  continue  her  protests  in 
the  snow.  And  in  the  same  moment  a  puff  of  wind 
blew  the  door  shut  with  a  bang. 

John  shut  his  mouth  on  a  screech,  but  it  was  a  long 
half-minute  before  his  hand  went  into  the  cosy  nest. 
This  time,  however,  he  had  his  reward.  A  regular 
whopper  of  an  egg — the  most  splendid  yet ! 

Just  then  the  door  was  opened  and  his  aunt  ap- 
peared. With  a  black  shawl  over  her  head,  her  gaunt 
face  in  the  grey  light  looked  very  dreadful. 

"What's  this?"  she  cried,  in  a  terrible  voice.  Then 
"Drap  that  egg!"  Doubtless  she  meant  to  say,  "Re- 
turn that  egg  to  the  nest!" 

Whether  the  boy  took  her  literally  or  the  egg  slipped 
from  his  hand  need  not  be  discussed.  With  a  sickening 
little  crash  it  exploded  on  the  floor.  Then  without 
a  sound  the  boy  bolted  past  her  and  away  to  school. 

All  was  lost !  Yet  fate  had  not  exhausted  her  blows. 
On  entering  the  schoolroom  he  found  it  humming  with 
early-birds,  some  merry,  others  cross,  while  Miss  Ham- 
ilton's desk  was  covered  with  offerings  mainly  of  a 
baked  and  vegetable  nature.  Clearly  the  Good  Fairy 


THE  GOOD  FAIRY  45 

idea  had  "caught  on,"  and  the  teacher  on  her  arrival 
wished,  however  graciously  she  expressed  herself,  that 
she  had  held  her  tongue  on  the  previous  morning. 

For  John  the  day  was  one  of  misery  and  despair, 
and  more  than  once  he  was  near  to  breaking  down. 
Immediately  on  the  close  of  school  he  made  for  home 
with  all  its  terrors  rather  than  wait  with  the  crowd 
to  bid  good-bye  to  the  beloved  teacher,  who  was  leaving 
by  the  early  train  next  morning.  For  the  greatest 
blow  of  all  had  fallen.  Even  Miss  Hamilton  had  been 
wrong.  He  was  not  a  Good  Fairy,  or  anything  like  it. 
Conscience  had  at  last  told  him  so! 

It  was  evening  in  the  cottage.  The  meal  was  over. 
Everything  was  tidied  up.  On  the  right  of  the  hearth 
sat  Mr.  Brown,  his  uneasy  countenance  concealed  by 
a  weekly  paper;  on  the  left  Mrs.  Brown,  cold  and 
stern,  knitting  steadily.  On  a  stool,  set  apart  from  his 
relatives,  squatted  John.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  was 
on  his  knees,  and  his  eyes  were  glued  to  it,  but  he  had 
not  turned  a  page  for  half  an  hour. 

There  had  been  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
wail  of  the  wind  in  the  chimney,  when  Mrs.  Brown 
spoke. 

"Peter,  the  time  has  come." 

Her  husband  started.  Behind  the  paper  he  mut- 
tered :  "I  canna  dae  it." 

"It's  yer  duty." 

"Weel,  I'll  see  aboot  it  in  the  mornin'." 

"It's  got  to  be  done  the  nicht,  an'  the  suner  the 
better." 

"Oh,  woman,"  said  Peter,  in  a  lowered  voice,  "let 
it  pass  this  time." 

"Spare  the  rod  an'  spile  the  child!"  she  retorted. 

"Fudge!"  Peter  let  fall  the  paper,  possibly  in  as- 
tonishment at  his  own  temerity. 


46  KIDDIES 

"What?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brown,  as  one  who  refuses 
to  believe  her  ears. 

"There  was  plenty  o'  the  rod  afore  he  cam'  to  us," 
said  Peter,  "an'  what  guid  has  it  done?" 

"Man,  wud  yee  set  yersel'  up  against  Solomon?" 

"Solomon  had  his  gifts,"  said  Peter  wearily,  "but 
I  never  was  entirely  satisfied  wi'  the  wisdom  o'  a  man 
that  had  several  gross  o'  wives  an'  dear  knows  how 
mony  cone " 

"Whisht!" 

•John  looked  up.  He  had  been  in  disgrace  for  a  long, 
long  time,  and  was  feeling  horribly  lonely.  Perhaps  at 
last  they  were  going  to  forgive  his  crime,  and  here  was 
an  opportunity  of  attracting  his  uncle's  attention. 

"Uncle,"  he  said  gently,  "what's  a  conk  ?" 

"Haud  yer  tongue!"  snapped  his  aunt,  with  an  angry 
look  at  her  man. 

Mr.  Brown  made  an  odd  sound  in  his  throat.  Then 
gravely  he  answered:  "Merely  a  sort  o'  lady,  John." 

"Peter,"  said  his  wife,  "if  ye  dinna  dae  yer  duty, 
ye'll  be  sorry." 

Peter  knew  he  would  be  sorry  either  way,  but  habit 
reasserted  itself  and  obedience  followed.  He  cleared 
his  throat. 

"John,"  he  said  ponderously,  "I  was  vexed  to  hear 
ye  had  been — a — tamperin'  wi'  yer  aunt's  eggs.  What 
for  did  ye  dae  it?" 

John,  looking  wretched,  answered  nothing. 

"Tamperin'!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brown.  "Stole  is 
the  word  for't!  An'  eggs  that  few  an'  valuable!" 

"Maybe  he  didna  ken  he  was  stealin',"  said  Peter. 
"Did  ye,  John?" 

"I — I  thocht  the  hens  wud  lay  plenty  mair,  Uncle 
Peter." 

"Ye  had  nae  business  to  think  what  the  hens  wud 
dae,"  his  aunt  said  bitterly.  "Peter,  he's  confessed  to 


THE  GOOD  FAIRY  47 

stealin'  hauf  a  dizzen  in  the  last  twa  weeks,  but  he 
wudna  confess  what  he  did  wi'  them.  Ask  him !" 

"John,  what  did  ye  dae  wi'  the  eggs?" 

No  answer;  for  John  had  made  up  his  mind  that, 
whatever  happened,  he  would  not  get  his  teacher  into 
trouble. 

"There  ye  see!"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  at  last.  "If  he 
had  confessed,  I  micht  ha'e  overlooked  it.  Dae  yer 
duty,  Peter,  as  ye  promised  me  ye  wud.  It's  for  his  ain 
guid,"  she  paused.  "I'll  gang  oot  to  the  henhoose  till 
ye  get  it  ower."  She  nodded  in  the  direction  of  a  cane, 
commonly  used  on  carpets,  that  stood  against  the  wall 
beside  his  chair,  where  she  had  placed  it  earlier.  Then 
taking  up  her  shawl  and  a  candle,  she  left  the  kitchen. 

"The  Lord  help  me!"  sighed  Peter,  and  added  un- 
der his  breath:  "I  wish  I  had  Solomon  here!"  With- 
out looking  at  the  boy  he  said:  "John,  will  ye  tell 
me  what  ye  did  wi'  the  eggs?" 

"I  canna." 

"Weel,  I'm  dam — I  mean,  I'm  exceedin'ly  sorry,  but 
I'll  ha'e  to  punish  ye — gi'e  ye  a  lickin',  in  fac'.  Pre- 
pare yersel' !" 

"Hoo  am  I  to  prepare  masel'?"  quavered  John. 

With  a  sudden  inspiration  the  man  pointed  with  the 
cane  to  the  red  cloth  on  the  table.  "Tak'  it  an'  wrap 
it  roun'  yer — a  legs." 

A  new  form  of  torture,  perhaps,  but  John  obeyed. 

Mr.  Brown  advanced  and  took  his  victim  carefully 
by  the  coat  collar.  "Noo  mind,"  he  said,  "I've  got 
to  try  for  to  hurt  ye.  Ma  duty,  ye  ken,"  he  added, 
rather  apologetically.  "Are  ye  ready?"  He  flour- 
ished the  cane  and  brought  it  down  gingerly  on  the 
tablecloth.  "Did  that  hurt  ye?" 

"Ay — na,  it  didna,  Uncle  Peter." 

"Honest  lad!"  A  slightly  harder  stroke.  "Did 
that?" 


48  KIDDIES 

"Na." 

After  several  cuts  the  tormentor  paused,  looking 
helpless. 

"Uncle  Peter,"  said  John,  "ye'd  best  lick  me  proper, 
or  she'll  no'  be  pleased  wi'  ye." 

"Tits!  Ye'll  break  ma  heart!  There!"  (whack). 
"Was  that  no  sair?" 

"A  wee  bittie." 

(Whack.)     "An'  that?" 

John  winced. 

"It  wud  be  better  if  ye  cried  oot,"  said  Mr.  Brown, 
and  struck  once  more.  "Yell!" 

John  gave  a  squeak.  Then  suddenly,  "Oh,  Uncle 
Peter,  ye're  awfu'  kind,"  he  said,  and  fell  to  sobbing 
bitterly. 

With  a  bad  word  Peter  flung  the  cane  across  the 
kitchen.  "God  forgi'e  us  a',"  he  muttered,  and  un- 
wrapping the  cloth,  replaced  it  on  the  table. 

"John,"  he  said,  and  patted  his  nephew's  shoulder, 
"dinna  greet.  This'll  be  a  secret  atween  us.  An'  I'll 
tak'  yer  word  if  ye  promise  never  to  gang  near  the  hens 
again,  excep'  by  yer  aunt's  orders.  I  suppose  ye  sooked 
the  eggs — a  natural  proceedin'  for  a  hungry  juvenile  in 
cauld  weather.  An'  ye'll  tell  yer  aunt  yer  sorry,  an' 
try  to  mak'  it  up  to  her — eh?" 

Unable  to  speak,  the  boy  nodded  emphatically. 

"Guid  lad!  Tell  her  the  morn,  «n'  gang  to  yer 
bed  noo.  Oh,  wait  a  meenute !  Here's  anither  secret. 
Tell  naebody." 

John  felt  something  put  into  his  hand  and  himself 
guided  from  the  kitchen.  In  the  passage  Peter  took 
up  a  small  safety  lamp  and  carried  it  into  the  box  of  a 
room  where  the  boy  slept. 

"Guid  nicht,  John,  an'  forget  yer  troubles,"  he  said, 
and  closed  the  door. 

After  a  while  John  opened  his  hand  expecting  to 


THE  GOOD  FAIRY  49 

find  a  ha'penny — and  lo  and  behold — a  shilling!  It 
was  long — for  a  little  boy,  at  any  rate — before  he 
slept,  but  when  slumber  arrived  it  found  him  per- 
fectly happy,  for  everything  had  come  right  and  he  was, 
without  the  faintest  shadow  of  doubt,  a  Good  Fairy 
after  all. 

When  Mrs.  Brown  returned  to  the  kitchen,  her 
husband,  from  behind  the  trembling  weekly  paper, 
managed  to  say: 

"His  sufferin's  was  terrible,  Elizabeth.  I  hope  ye 
didna  hear  him." 

She  sat  down  as  though  very  tired  and  moistened 
her  lips. 

"I  had  ma  fingers  in  ma  ears,"  she  said. 

It  was  morning  in  the  cottage. 

"Is  John  no'  up  yet?"  inquired  the  uncle,  gazing  at 
the  steaming  dish  in  front  of  him. 

I  thocht  I  wud  let  him  rest,  seein'  he's  got  his  holi- 
s,"  returned  the  aunt. 

He  stared  at  her,  and  possibly  she  did  not  like  it, 
for  she  moved  from  the  kitchen,  remarking,  "I'll  see  if 
he's  wauken  noo." 

A  moment  later  Peter  heard  her  cry  out. 

In  the  small  room  he  found  her  standing  at  the 
window,  which  was  open,  in  one  hand  a  scrap  of  exer- 
cise paper,  in  the  other  a  shilling.  The  paper  bore  the 
following  words  pencilled  in  a  childish  hand : 

"This  shilling  has  bot  the  eggs  I  stole.  With  thanks 
from  John." 

The   man   and  woman   suddenly  looked   ten   years 
older.     With  one  accord  they  whispered — 
"Whaur  can  he  be?" 

The  porter  was  slamming  the  doors,  when  a  small 


50  KIDDIES 

boy  with  a  red  head  rushed  from  the  snow  into  the 
station  and  along  the  platform,  his  countenance  ex- 
pressing acute  anxiety. 

Fortunattely  Miss  Hamilton  was  looking  out  of  the 
open  window. 

"What  is  it,  John?"  she  cried. 

Though  he  could  not  speak  just  then,  his  desire  to  do 
so  was  plain. 

At  the  risk  of  being  left  behind,  the  girl  descended. 

"What's  the  matter?  Tell  me,  John."  She  bent 
over  him  and  put  her  arm  round  his  shoulders.  "Come, 
dearie" — giving  him  a  squeeze. 

At  last  he  got  it  out  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Please,  I'm  the  Guid  Fairy  .  .  .  but — but  I'll  no' 
be  able  to  fetch  ye  ony  mair  eggs." 


V 

THE  ANSWER 

"MOTHER!" 

A  pause  of  ten  seconds. 

"Mother!" 

A  pause  of  five  seconds. 

"Mother!" 

"What  is  it,  Teddy?"  There  was  at  least  a  trace 
of  asperity  in  Mrs.  Bulward's  voice  as  she  turned,  pen- 
cil in  hand,  from  the  fire  to  face  her  small  son  in  the 
big  bed. 

"Why  do  you  always  make  faces  when  you  are  writ- 
ing in  that  book,  mother?"  Teddy  was  recovering 
from  one  of  "those  nasty  feverish  colds,"  and  one  of 
his  privileges  during  the  convalescent  period  was  to 
spend  the  afternoons  in  the  big  bed,  looking  for  all 
sorts  of  extra  considerations  as  if  he  deserved  them. 

"I  don't  make  faces!"  Mrs.  Bulward  returned  with 
a  haughtiness  rather  absurd  in  the  circumstances.  But 
she  was  not  quite  herself  after  several  disturbed  nights 
and  this  long,  futile  struggle  with  the  housekeeping 
accounts  book.  Moreover,  she  was  young,  and  had  not 
yet  forgotten  she  was  pretty. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  you  are  making  them,"  said 
Teddy  mildly,  "but  you  are.  I  don't  think  I  like  it." 

"Oh,  be  quiet  and  keep  your  arms  under  the  clothes." 

"Can't  breave  with  my  arms  under  the  clothes." 

"Nonsense!     Put  them  under  at  once!" 

"All  right" — in  tones  of  patient  resignation;  "I  sup- 
Si 


52  KIDDIES 

pose  you'd  prefer  your  little  boy  to  be  stuffocated. 
May  I  have  a  drink  first?" 

"You  may,"  she  replied  stiffly,  getting  up. 

"I  never  feel  so  fond  of  you  when  you  speak  in  that 
other  lady's  voice,"  he  remarked,  and  took  a  sip.  "I 
don't  think  the  milk's  so  good  to-day,"  he  added,  lying 
down  again.  "It's  got  a  fish-fat  taste." 

"Don't  be  absurd !  You  imagine  things  because  you 
are  not  quite  well  yet.  Fish-fat  indeed!  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"I  have.  You  ought  to  speak  to  Mr.  Boo  and  Mrs. 
Moo  about  it."  These  being  the  worthy  couple,  bet- 
ter known  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McPherson,  who  supplied 
milk  in  the  neighborhood.  "Sometimes,"  he  added, 
"the  butter  has  a  bow-wow  taste." 

"That  will  do,  Teddy.     You  must  take  a  nap  now." 

"I'm  not  sleepy.     What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Never  mind,"  she  replied,  the  accusation  of  "mak- 
ing faces"  still  rankling.  To  herself  she  said,  "But  I 
will  find  out  where  that  one  and  threepence  has  gone 
to,  before  Dick  comes  home."  It  should  be  mentioned 
here  that  prior  to  the  war  Mrs.  Bulward  had  never  seen 
the  inside  of  a  housekeeping  accounts  book. 

Teddy  lay  still  for  quite  a  long  time,  and  she  had 
just  discovered  an  error  of  fourpence,  which  left  her 
with  the  more  than  ever  puzzling  discrepancy  of 
eleven-pence  to  deal  with  when — 

"Mother!" 

She  snatched  the  misery-making  volume  from  her 
knee  and  slammed  it  upon  the  floor. 

Teddy  sat  up  all  interest.     "Was  it  a  mouse?" 

Controlling  herself  partially  she  said:  "You  know 
perfectly  well  there  are  no  mouse  in  this  hice!" 

He  laughed  heartily.     "Say  it  again,  mother!" 

She  laughed,  too,  in  spite  of  herself.  "It's  a  silly  old 
book,"  she  said.  "But  you  must  lie  down,  or  you  won't 


THE  ANSWER  53 

be  better  in  time  for  Christmas."  Having  tucked  him 
in,  she  went  back  to  the  fire  and  took  up  some  sewing. 

"Mother!" 

"Yes,  dear?"  Evidently  the  recent  little  outburst 
had  done  her  good. 

"Mother,  has  the  turkey  come?" 

"What  turkey?" 

"Our  turkey." 

She  threaded  a  needle  before  she  said  kindly:  "I'm 
afraid,  Teddy,  we  are  not  going  to  manage  a  turkey 
this  Christmas." 

"Why?"     He  all  but  sat  up  in  his  astonishment. 

"Because  of  the  war,  dearie." 

'Have  the  Germans  been  shooting  the  turkeys,  too?" 

"I  couldn't  say;  but  I'm  afraid  we  can't  afford  a 
turkey." 

"Why  can't  we  afford  a  turkey?" 

"Our  pennies  are  required  for  so  many  other  things." 

"I'll  ask  daddy." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  I'd  do  that,  if  I  were  you. 
You  see,  daddy  would  give  us  a  turkey  if  he  possibly 
could." 

"I  see."  Teddy  gave  a  little  sigh.  "Are  turkeys 
awful  dear?" 

"They  are  very  expensive,  Teddy.  Even  little  ones 
cost " 

"Couldn't  we  have  a  fearfully  small,  little  one — 
about  this  size?  Look,  mother!"  His  hands  came 
above  the  clothes  to  indicate  a  bulk  the  size  of  an  or- 
ange. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "They  don't  keep 
them  quite  so  small  as  that,  dear.  Why,  the  fowl  we 
are  going  to  have  will  be  far  bigger " 

"I  hate  fowl!     I  simply  can't  stick  it!" 

"Oh,  Teddy!     You  know  you  love  fowl!" 


54  KIDDIES 

"Not  when  I'm  thinking  of  turkey." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you  will  love  our  fowl  when  you 
see  it.  It  will  be  stuffed  just  like  a  turkey,  you  know. 
A  great  many  people  this  year,"  she  went  on,  "will  be 
missing  turkey " 

"I'll  miss  it  dreadfully!" 

"I  meant  doing  without  it.  It  isn't  so  difficult  to  do 
without  things  when  we  think  of  our  brave  soldiers — 
is  it,  Teddy?" 

''If  I  had  a  turkey  I  would  give  the  brave  soldiers 
a  great  big  bit  of  it." 

"I'm  sure  you  would.  But  by  doing  without  it  we 
can  help  them  in  other  ways.  You  see  ?" 

"I — I  think  I'll  have  a  nap  now,"  he  said,  and  turned 
on  his  side.  He  was  well  under  the  clothes  now,  and 
he  kept  his  eyes  shut  for  about  a  minute.  He  was  just 
old  enough  to  feel  that,  somehow,  Christmas  was  not 
right  without  a  turkey.  It  is  not  the  aged,  but  the  very 
young  who  truly  venerate  tradition.  It  was  not  the  dis- 
appointment of  a  greedy  nature  that  brought  the  mois- 
ture to  the  young  eyes;  simply  a  sadness  not  to  be  ex- 
plained and  described  in  so  many  words.  Things  gen- 
erally in  his  little  world  had  gone  wrong.  At  the  end 
of  five  minutes : 

"Mother!" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Have  you  asked  God  for  a  turkey?" 

Mrs.  Bulward  was  taken  aback,  but  managed  to 
reply: 

"I  think  we  should  ask  Him  only  for  very  impor- 
tant things  just  now,  Teddy." 

"But  a  turkey's  a  very  'portant  thing.  Do  you 
think  He'd  mind  if  I  asked  Him  to-night?  He 
wouldn't  be  cross,  would  He — even  if  He  was  awful 
busy  looking  after  the  soldiers?" 

"No,  I'm  syrp  He  would  never  be  angry  with  a  little 


THE  ANSWER  55 

boy  who  believed  in  Him.  But,  you  know,  Teddy 
dear,  He  does  not  give  everything  we  ask  for " 

"I  know!  I've  never  got  that  box  of  tools  yet,  and 
I've  asked  for  it  nights  and  nights.  But  I  daresay  He 
was  afraid  I'd  hurt  myself  with  the  saw,  though  I 
promised  Him  I'd  be  awful  careful.  .  .  .  But  don't  you 
think  I  might  ask  for  the  turkey?" 

His  mother  came  over  and  stroked  his  hair.  "Ask 
for  everything  you  want,  Teddy  boy.  Just  always 
remember  that  He  knows  best  what  is  good  for  us." 

Teddy  reflected  for  a  moment.  Then — "I'd  better 
do  it  now,  for  I  guess  heaps  of  people  will  be  asking 
for  turkeys.  Please  kneel  down.  ..." 

A  little  later  he  said: 

"You're  not  to  tell  daddy,  'cause  I  want  him  to  get 
a  surprise." 

Just  then  Mr.  Bulward  arrived  home,  unexpectedly 
early,  and  all  doubts  and  melancholy  departed,  so  far 
as  Teddy  was  concerned.  Mr.  Bulward,  too,  was 
looking  brighter  than  of  late.  He  had  been  hard  hit 
by  the  war,  but  perhaps  the  sorest  blow  had  been  his 
rejection  for  military  service. 

He  was  doing  what  he  could  in  other  ways,  and  as 
a  special  constable  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning 
had  acquired  merit  if  not  distinction. 

He  brought  news  that  pleased  his  wife  and  boy  al- 
most as  much  as  himself.  His  younger  brother,  who 
had  been  lying  wounded  in  Malta,  was  on  his  way 
home,  and  would  arrive  in  time  to  spend  Christmas 
with  them. 

"He  should  be  here  on  the  23rd,  or  early  on  the 
24th,  Milly,"  said  Mr.  Bulward.  "You'll  get  plenty 
of  stories  from  your  Uncle  Jack,  Teddy." 

"I'm  going  to  give  him  a  present,"  Teddy  announced, 
with  that  lightning  quickness  of  decision  which  only 
children  possess. 


56  KIDDIES 

"What'll  you  give  him  ?"  asked  his  father. 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Wait  till  I  see  what's  in  my 
stocking." 

"Oh,  but  you  wouldn't  give  away  a  Christmas  pres- 
ent, Teddy!"  cried  his  mother  admonishingly. 

"You  always  give  away  the  things  you  get  from 
Aunt  Bella." 

"I  think  we  might  give  him  a  box  of  decent  cigar- 
ettes," interposed  Mr.  Bulward,  chiefly  to  cover  his 
wife's  confusion. 

"But  can  we  afford  it?"  said  Teddy.  "Of  course! 
I  forgot  he  was  a  soldier!" 


II 

Captain  Bulward  arrived  on  the  23rd,  but  so  late  at 
night  that  Teddy  did  not  see  him  till  breakfast-time. 
Teddy  was  pretty  much  himself  again,  and  as  the  morn- 
ing was  fine,  there  was  nothing  to  qualify  his  satisfac- 
tion when  his  uncle  suggested  a  stroll  round.  His  fa- 
ther was  bound  to  business  as  usual,  his  mother,  in  those 
days  of  economy,  had  her  hands  full  with  household 
affairs,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  his  pride  and 
delight  were  not  lessened  when  he  realised  that  he  was 
to  have  the  Captain  all  to  himself  for  a  couple  of  hours. 

"Well,  where  are  we  going,  old  cock?"  the  soldier 
cheerfully  inquired,  as  he  took  his  stick,  which  unfor- 
tunately he  required,  from  the  stand. 

Teddy  had  been  called  many  odd  things  in  his  time, 
but  never  "old  cock."  It  was  a  lovely  name ! 

"I  think  Uncle  Jack  would  like  to  see  the  Park," 
said  his  mother,  who  always  meant  well,  while  she  ex- 
amined him  from  head  to  heel. 

Teddy's  face  fell.  The  Park  would  be  "awfully 
stale,"  but  he  did  not  say  so. 


THE  ANSWER  57 

"And  I,"  said  the  captain  gravely,  "think  Uncle  Jack 
would,  on  the  whole,  prefer  an  hour  at  the  shops,  and 
then  a  rest  in  a  nice  tea-room,  and  then  an  hour  in  a 
picture  house,  if  one  should  be  open  so  early,  and  then 
a  drive  home  in  a  taxi.  How's  that,  Teddy?" 

Teddy,  his  countenance  beaming,  clutched  his  uncle's 
hand.  "Come  on !"  he  cried,  shoving  his  free  hand  in 
his  pocket. 

"But  no  rich  cakes,  mind!"  Mrs.  Bulward  called 
after  them.  A  moment  later  she  rushed  out  in  their 
track.  "Teddy,  have  you  got  your  clean  hanky?" 

"Of  course!" 

Having  made  him  exhibit  it,  she  retired  more 
leisurely,  stopped  at  the  gate  to  wave  till  they  passed 
round  the  corner,  then  turned  towards  the  house,  sat- 
isfied that  she  had  done  all  that  a  mother  could  do — 
and  on  the  doorstep  beheld  one  of  his  gloves. 

As  they  neared  the  shops : 

"I  guess  you're  going  to  have  a  pretty  merry  Christ- 
mas, Teddy,"  the  Captain  remarked. 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Teddy,  wishing  he  would  call  him 
"old  cock"  again. 

"The  war  won't  make  any  difference  to  Santa  Claus, 
I  suppose.  He'll  come  along  all  right,  up  to  time,  as 
usual,  won't  he?" 

"I  hope  so.  The  enemy  couldn't  keep  him  away, 
could  they,  Uncle  Jack?" 

"I'm  sure  not!  Do  you  ever  happen  to  hear  before- 
hand what  you're  going  to  get  in  your  stocking?" 

"Oh,  yes;  some  things  I  know  all  about  before  they 
come." 

"Really!  Things  you  particularly  want,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  look  here,  old  cock" — Teddy  gave  a  small 


58  KIDDIES 

squirm  of  delight — "I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you  ex- 
pect to  get  this  year.  I'm  awfully  interested,  and  I 
promise  you  I'll  keep  it  a  secret." 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Teddy,  with  sudden  gravity, 
"it's  sort  of  different  this  year.  I  know  of  two  things 
only,  and  they're  just  little  things,  and  I — I  didn't — 
don't  really  want  them  awful  much.  Of  course,  I'll 
be  glad  to  get  them,  but " 

"I  see.  I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  telling  me  of 
something  you  did  want — do — want — awfully  much. 
You  see,  it's  a  long  time  since  I  was  a  little  boy,  but  I 
do  remember  some  of  the  things  I  wanted  awfully 
much — and  never  got — and  it  would  be  interesting  to 
see  if  you  and  I  have  ever  wanted  the  same  sort  of 
things." 

The  idea  appealed  to  Teddy.  After  a  moment's 
thought  he  said  very  confidentially,  "Did  you  ever 
want  awful  much  a  train,  Uncle  Jack,  a  train  with 
rails  and ?" 

The  Captain  put  down  his  stick  with  a  thump. 
"Now,  isn't  that  extraordinary?"  he  exclaimed.  "A 
train  with  rails  is  the  thing  I  wanted  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world." 

"Oh!  I  wonder  if  it  was  a  train  like  the  one  I 
wanted?  I'll  show  you  it,  if  you  like.  It's  in  a  shop 
along  here.  Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

"Rather!" 

"It's  rather  dear,  you  know.  Daddy  said  he  was 
afraid  it  would  completely  bust  Santa  Claus  to  give  it 
to  me.  Do  you  think  it  would  ?" 

"Well,  you  must  remember,  old  cock,  that  the  war 
has  made  differences,  and  even  Santa  Claus  may  be 
feeling  the  pinch — you  know  what  I  mean?  It's  not 
because  he  doesn't  want  to  give  the  most  splendid  pres- 
ents. I  say!"  cried  the  Captain,  deeming  it  wise  to 
change  the  subject,  for  the  time  being,  at  any  rate,  "look 


THE  ANSWER  59 

at  that  turkey  in  the  window  there !  Isn't  he  a  whop- 
per?" 

He  was  sorry  he  had  spoken,  for  a  most  dismal  ex- 
pression dawned  on  the  boy's  face. 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Teddy.  "I  had  sort  of  forgot- 
ten. And  He  hasn't  sent  one !"  He  came  to  a  sudden 
halt.  "I  suppose  He  was  too  busy  looking  after  the 
soldiers,  or  perhaps  He  didn't  think  it  would  be  good 
for  us — 'specially  the  stuffing." 

The  soldier  bent  down.  "What's  the  matter,  old 
cock?" 

"It's  a  secret,  but  I'll  tell  you.  Whisper!  Mother 
said  we  couldn't  afford  a  turkey  this  year,  so  I  just 
prayed  for  one." 

"Oh!"  murmured  the  Captain,  a  trifle  awkwardly. 

"I  prayed  pretty  hard  too,  I  can  tell  you,  but  I  did 
forget  the  night  before  last.  Still,  I  'membered  last 
night.  But  it  hasn't  come.  I  suppose  it  won't  come 
now,  and  we'll  just  be  having  fowl  to-morrow — and 
fowl's  very  good  too,  Uncle  Jack,  only  you  mustn't 
think  of  turkey  when  you're  eating  it." 

"Are  you  so  very  fond  of  turkey,  Teddy?" 

"It — it's  not  just  the  turkey,  either.     It's — it's " 

"The  association,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  the  'sociation — not  the  tummy,  you  know." 

"I  know.     So  you're  afraid  it  won't  come  now?" 

Teddy  nodded.  "  'Cause  you  see,  I  said :  'Please 
send  quickly,  so  that  mother  won't  need  to  buy  the 
fowl.'  .  .  .  Let's  go  and  look  at  the  shops,  Uncle  Jack. 
Perhaps  the  train  will  be  away  now." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Uncle  Jack.  "I  want  to  see  that 
train." 

Well,  the  train  was  still  there,  and  it  was  really  a 
very  fine  train,  and  the  price  on  the  ticket  was  "Only 
1 8*.  6d" 

The  Captain  produced  a  Treasury  note. 


60  KIDDIES 

"Look  here,  old  cock!  You  know  what  this  is. 
Twenty  shillings — eighteen-and-six  and  a  little  bit 
more.  Now  which  would  you  rather  buy — the  train 
or  the  turkey?" 

"Oh,  the  train !"  gasped  Teddy,  without  an  instant's 
hesitation. 

"Good  lad!  come  in  and  buy  it!" 

When  the  shopman  began  to  tie  up  the  splendid  pur- 
chase, the  Captain  said: 

"I  want  to  get  some  tobacco,  so  you'll  wait  here  till 
I  come  back,  Teddy." 

There  were  heaps  of  wonderful  things  to  see  in  the 
shop,  but  Teddy  only  hugged  his  parcel  and  looked 
thoughtful  till  his  uncle  returned. 

"Now  then,"  said  the  latter,  "I  think  we'll  go  and 
have  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  poor  cake." 

Teddy  gave  a  small  laugh  and  relapsed  into  serious- 
ness. 

"Anything  wrong  with  the  train  ?"  inquired  the  Cap- 
tain when  they  had  walked  a  little  way. 

"Oh,  no!     I  was  just  thinking." 

"What  were  you  thinking?" 

"  'Bout  the  turkey.  Uncle  Jack,  I  shouldn't  be 
awful  surprised  if  the  turkey  came  too." 

"Wouldn't  you?" 

"No;  'cause  it  wouldn't  be  any  wonderfuller  than 
the  train." 

The  captain  lit  a  cigarette.  "By  the  way,  old  cock, 
/did  you — er — pray  for  the  train?" 

"No,"  answered  Teddy  decidedly. 

The  Captain  seemed  a  little  disappointed,  till  Teddy 
shoved  a  small  hand  into  his  big  one,  saying:  "I  forgot 
to  say  'thank  you/  and  please,  I  can't  carry  this  parcel 
any  further." 

Then  they  proceeded  to  the  promised  entertain- 
jtnents, 


THE  ANSWER  61 

On  their  return  home  Mrs.  Bulward  simply  rushed 
at  them. 

"Oh,  Teddy,  what  do  you  think?  A  great  mag- 
nificent turkey  has  arrived!" 

"Has  it?"  said  Teddy,  without  much  excitement. 
"Uncle  Jack  bought  me  a  splendid  train !" 

Presently  she  turned  to  her  brother-in-law.  "I  be- 
lieve it  was  you  who  sent " 

"Don't!"  he  said  gravely. 


VI 

JOCK 

"Now,  my  lad,  don't  be  trying  that  game  again,"  said 
the  third  mate  of  the  s.S.  Neptune,  as  he  led  the  boy 
by  the  ear  across  the  gang-plank  to  the  quay.  "If  I 
hadn't  caught  ye  just  now,  that  hatch  would  ha'  been 
closed,  and  that  would  ha'  been  an  end  to  ye.  Away 
home  wi'  ye,  and  don't  try  it  again."  He  lifted  his 
foot,  and  with  a  push  rather  than  a  kick  propelled  the 
boy  a  couple  of  yards  in  the  direction  mentioned. 

Recovering  his  balance,  the  boy,  whose  burning 
cheeks  were  not  so  hot  as  his  heart,  went  slowly  from 
the  quayside  and  at  last  disappeared  from  the  mate's 
view  round  the  corner  of  a  shed.  There  he  rubbed 
his  sleeve  across  his  eyes,  sniffed  once  or  twice,  and, 
later,  passed  into  the  street  called  Broomielaw.  For 
the  third  time  he  had  failed;  for  the  second  time  he 
had  been  ignominiously  ejected  from  a  ship,  while  less 
than  a  week  ago  he  had  suffered  a  somewhat  similar 
experience  after  attempting  to  leave  Glasgow  by  rail. 
On  the  last  occasion,  as  on  the  others,  all  had  gone  well 
to  begin  with.  Eluding  observation,  he  had  secreted 
himself  under  the  seat  of  a  first-class  compartment  of 
a  train  standing  in  Queen  Street  Station,  and  after  a 
long,  anxious  wait  the  train  had  started.  At  the  end 
of  five  minutes  it  had  stopped  and  gone  backwards,  and 
stopped  again.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  boy  had 
realised  that  he  was  the  sole  passenger  on  the  train, 
and  that,  in  fact,  the  train  was  not  going  anywhere; 

62 


JOCK  63 

it  had  merely  taken  him  to  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
some  three  miles  from  home.  Threats  of  jail  and  a 
cuff  or  two  had  been  his  portion  ere  he  was  free  from 
the  vast  railway  yard.  And  he  had  gone  home,  hum- 
bled by  hunger. 

He  was  hungry  now,  but  he  tried  not  to  hasten,  until 
he  remembered  that  he  was  very  late  for  the  mid-day 
meal.  The  cook-shops  in  the  Broomielaw  made  his 
mouth  water.  Even  the  dignity  of  an  elderly  person 
wavers  at  the  pinch  of  hunger,  and  this  boy  was  barely 
eleven  years  old.  "There  is  nothing,"  we  smugly  de- 
clared, "like  a  good,  healthy  appetite."  Nothing,  in- 
deed !  It  is  stronger  than  conscience. 

The  boy  turned  into  a  quiet,  dingy  street,  and  ere 
long  crossed  roaring,  rattling,  clanging  Argyle  Street, 
then  up  another  quiet,  dingy  street,  and  so  to  the 
house  called  home.  It  was  summer  and  the  day  close, 
but  he  felt  chilly  as  he  climbed  the  flights  of  grey 
stone  stairs.  On  the  third  landing  he  halted,  and 
after  some  hesitation  knocked  on  one  of  the  four  doors 
there. 

He  waited,  then  knocked  again  .  .  .  and  yet  again. 

At  last  the  door  was  opened. 

"Wipe  yer  feet,"  said  a  cold  voice,  belonging  to  a 
lean,  wiry,  hard-featured  woman  of  middle  age. 

She  was  the  boy's  aunt.  His  mother,  her  sister,  had 
been  dead  for  six  years.  His  father,  a  mate  on  a  great 
sailing  ship,  had  been  away  for  nearly  twelve  months. 

"Jock!  Where  ha'e  ye  been?"  the  woman  de- 
manded severely,  closing  the  door  and  following  the 
boy  into  the  kitchen. 

"Oot,"  said  Jock  briefly,  his  eyes  roving  round  the 
room. 

There  was  no  sign  of  a  meal.  The  table,  scrubbed 
white,  as  was  all  the  unpainted  woodwork  of  the  room, 
had  been  replaced  against  the  wall.  Only  a  kettle 


64  KIDDIES 

stood  on  the  satin-black  hob  of  the  open  range.  Miss 
Wishart  was  both  cleanly  and  godly. 

"I'm  askin'  ye  where  ye've  been?" 

"Doon  at  the  docks,"  he  answered  sullenly.  Within 
the  moment,  however,  his  eyes  lit  up.  So  he  had  not 
been  forgotten  after  all ! 

He  moved  towards  the  sink  in  the  window. 

"Doon  at  the  docks!"  the  woman  repeated.  "I've 
warned  ye  no'  to  gang  there.  Ye'll  learn  naething 
there  but  bad  language." 

Jock  seemed  not  to  hear  her.  On  the  sink-board  he 
had  spied  a  plate  containing  four  potatoes  which  had 
been  boiled  in  their  skins.  The  skins  had  burst,  dis- 
closing the  tempting  mealiness.  The  potatoes  were 
now  cold — but  what  of  that? 

The  boy  picked  up  one  of  them. 

"Drap  it!"  cried  his  aunt. 

He  hesitated.     "I'm  hungry,  auntie,"  he  said. 

"Drap  it,  I  tell  ye!  I've  warned  ye  a  hunner  times 
no'  to  be  late;  I've  warned  ye  no'  to  gang  to  the 
docks.  ...  I  said  ye  wud  get  nae  dinner  if  ye  was  late 
— an'  I'm  gaun  to  keep  ma  word.  .  .  .  Drap  that 
tattie  this  meenute !" 

Still  he  hesitated. 

She  had  been  standing  by  the  hearth,  but  now  she 
took  a  step  towards  him. 

"Jock!     Dae  what  I  tell  ye!" 

"But  I— I'm  hungry." 

"Serves  ye  richt!  That's  yer  punishment.  Drap 
that  tattie  an'  gang  ben  the  hoose.  I'm  gaun  to  lock 
ye  up  for  the  efternune.  Oh,  but  I  wish  it  was  time 
for  the  schule  to  tak'  up  again.  Satan's  ower  free  in 
the  holidays.  .  .  .Drap  it,  I  tell  ye!" 

Jock  flared  up.  Back  swung  his  arm,  and  he  threw 
the  potato  straight  at  his  aunt.  Against  her  somewhat 
large  brow  it  exploded  in  fragments. 


JOCK  65 

The  next  instant  he  was  in  her  sinewy  grasp.  From 
the  dresser  she  snatched  a  porridge  spurtle,  but  her 
passion  died  ere  she  could  strike.  Dropping  the 
weapon,  she  pushed  the  boy  before  her  to  the  other 
room,  a  sort  of  parlour  with  a  bed  in  the  wall,  where 
he  slept.  She  locked  him  in,  and  returned  to  the 
kitchen.  There  she  picked  up  the  spurtle  and  laid  it  in 
its  place,  swept  up  the  shattered  potato  and  set  the  frag- 
ments on  the  window-sill  for  the  sparrows,  and  washed 
her  face  and  hands.  Then  by  the  white-scrubbed  arm- 
chair she  went  down  on  her  knees.  .  .  .  Five  minutes 
later  she  was  knitting  industriously. 

For  a  time  Jock  sat  nursing  his  misery  and  resent- 
ment, but  at  last  he  rose,  and,  after  a  prolonged  stare 
at  the  street  below,  the  chimneys  opposite,  began  to 
move  about  the  room,  slowly  circling  the  little  round 
table,  on  which  were  set  a  Family  Bible,  a  copy  of 
The  Pilgrim  s  Progress,  an  ancient  volume  of  sermons, 
several  recent  numbers  of  The  Missionary  Mail,  and 
a  glass  case  containing  a  collection  of  waxen  fruits  with 
exceeding  garish  complexions.  Jock  had  always  ad- 
mired the  collection,  possibly  because  it  was  the  sole  dis- 
tinct suggestion  of  gaiety  in  the  house,  but  now  some- 
thing whispered  to  him,  "Smash  it!"  He  knew  how 
his  aunt  treasured  it.  He  knew  also  that  his  aunt 
would  punish  him  for  its  destruction.  But  then  his 
aunt  found  fault  with  nearly  everything  he  did.  .  .  . 
He  was  so  hungry.  .  .  .  He  lifted  up  the  bulky  Pil- 
grim's Progress.  He  rather  liked  the  pictures  in  it; 
some  bits  of  the  reading  also  were  to  his  taste.  He 
poised  it  above  the  glass  case.  He  had  only  to  let  it 
slip,  and  his  revenge  would  be  complete.  Quite  likely 
his  aunt  would  cry.  He  felt  that  she  would,  though 
he  had  never  seen  her  do  so  in  the  past. 

He  lifted  the  book  a  few  inches  higher,  and  just 


66  KIDDIES 

then  the  clock  in  the  kitchen  struck  four  slow  and  sol- 
emn strokes. 

"Four  bells!"  he  said  to  himself,  and  all  but  let 
the  book  slip  from  his  fingers.  He  grew  hot  and  cold 
as  he  laid  it  carefully  on  the  table.  He  went  back  to 
the  window. 

From  one  of  his  pockets  he  produced  a  yard  or  so  of 
coarse  twine,  and  proceeded  to  tie  it,  as  tightly  as  pos- 
sible, about  his  middle,  beneath  his  vest,  wishing  he  pos- 
sessed a  proper  belt.  Possibly  he  derived  more  men- 
tal satisfaction  than  physical  ease  from  the  twine,  for 
when  he  sat  down  it  distinctly  pained  him,  and  he  had 
to  slacken  it.  From  another  pocket  he  extracted  a  bun- 
dle of  printed  paper,  rubbed  and  tattered  and  soiled. 
It  had  originally  cost  one  penny,  and  had  passed 
through  many  hands.  Jock  had  got  the  loan  of  it  from 
another  boy,  after  promising  faithfully  to  take  good 
care  of  it  and  return  it,  as  the  other  boy  was  under 
obligation  to  return  it  to  a  third,  who  may  not  have 
been  the  original  lender. 

Jock  unfolded  the  paper  with  great  caution.  The 
first  page  was  in  a  sad  state,  but  the  title  was  not  quite 
obliterated,  while  some  of  the  pictures  were  still  visible. 

Jack  Transome;  or  The  Gentleman  Pirate,  was  the 
title,  and  under  the  remnant  of  the  illustration  was 
printed :  ''  'Dastard !'  shouted  Jack,  and,  waving  his 
cutlass,  sprang  upon  the  poop." 

Jock  had  already  read  the  story  five  times,  but  its 
charm  was  as  strong  as  ever,  none  the  less  so  because 
the  names  Jack  and  Jock  were  so  like  each  other.  And 
Jack  Transome  was  truly  a  most  noble  character;  he 
robbed  only  the  wicked  rich,  and  was  ever  ready  to  suc- 
cour the  virtuous  poor.  He  was  bold  and  honest,  and 
did  not  play  shabby,  underhand  tricks  on  his  bitterest 
enemies. 

Jock,  as  he  began  to  read,  was  glad  he  had  not 


JOCK  67 

smashed  the  waxen  fruits,  for  he  realised  that  the  Gen- 
tleman Pirate  would  never  have  done  such  a  thing, 
even  had  the  G.  P.'s  aunt  refused  him  dinner.  More- 
over, Jock  blushed  with  shame  at  the  memory  of  the 
potato,  for  had  not  his  hero  declared,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  that  the  man  who  could  strike  a  defence- 
less woman  must  be  a  diabolical  coward.  Jock  was  not 
sure  of  the  meaning  of  "diabolical,"  but  the  word  had 
a  medicinal  sound,  and  must  therefore  mean  something 
exceedingly  unpleasant. 

"At  four  bells  Captain  Jack  came  on  deck  after  his 
brief  and  much-needed  repose.  He  gazed  long  and 
earnestly  through  his  glass ;  then,  as  he  removed  it  from 
his  clear  blue  eye,  he  remarked  to  the  steersman: 
'We're  gaining  on  her,  Sam.'  The  grizzled  sailor 
shifted  his  quid,  and,  with  an  affectionate  glance  at  his 
beloved  young  skipper,  replied,  'Ay,  ay,  sir!'  Just  at 
that  moment " 

The  reader  crushed  up  the  paper  and  stuffed  it  into 
his  pocket.  The  key  turned  in  the  lock,  the  door 
opened,  and  Miss  Wishart  said  quietly: 

"Come  to  yer  tea,  Jock." 

The  boy  obeyed  in  wonder  as  well  as  with  alacrity. 
It  was  not  near  the  usual  hour  for  tea. 

"Wash  yer  hauns  an'  face,"  said  the  woman  as  he 
entered  the  kitchen,  "an'  brush  yer  hair." 

Having  performed  his  toilet,  the  boy  took  his  place 
at  the  table,  which  was  now  covered  with  a  coarse  but 
snowy  cloth  and  laid  with  cheap  but  shining  dishes. 

After  repeating  a  lengthy  grace  the  aunt  poured  out 
tea.  Then  from  a  pan  on  the  hob  she  fished  an  egg, 
and  from  the  oven  brought  a  plate  of  fried  potatoes. 
She  set  both  before  her  nephew. 

"Eat  slow,"  she  said,  "or  ye'll  maybe  hurt  yersel'." 

Neither  her  face  nor  her  voice  softened.  The  boy 
gave  her  one  awkward  glance  and  dropped  his  eyes. 


68  KIDDIES 

Again  he  felt  glad  that  he  had  stayed  the  fall  of  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  but  shame  was  mingled  with  the 
satisfaction.  In  silence  he  began  to  eat.  The  merest 
hint  of  tenderness  on  the  woman's  part  just  then 
would  have  started  a  flood  of  regrets  from  the  heart  of 
the  boy. 

"Eat  slow,"  she  said  again,  and  sipped  the  tea  from 
her  saucer. 

Jock  pushed  the  fried  potatoes  towards  her. 

"Are  ye  no'  for  ony?"  he  asked,  with  an  effort. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  had  ma  dinner,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

It  was  now  plain  to  the  boy  that  she  had  really  made 
the  tea  early  for  his  sake.  He  struggled  to  express 
his  regrets,  but 

"I've  had  plenty  tatties  the  day,"  she  added  grimly. 
...  If  she  had  only  smiled  then! 

Jock  choked  slightly. 

"Eat  slow,"  she  repeated  once  more,  mechanically. 

Thereafter  the  boy  was  fain  to  gobble  his  food  and 
be  done  with  it. 

He  sat  by  the  hearth  while  his  aunt  washed  the 
dishes.  When  that  was  over  and  the  kitchen  in  per- 
fect order,  she  called  him  to  her  at  the  window. 

"I  seen  ye  had  gotten  pent  on  your  jayket.  That's 
what  ye  get  wi'  runnin'  aboot  the  docks.  Come  here 
till  I  see  if  terpentine'll  tak'  it  afr.  Hoo  cam'  ye  to 
get  pent  on  yer  jayket?" 

"I  got  it  on  a  boat,"  he  replied,  off  his  guard. 

"On  a  boat!  An'  what  was  ye  daein'  on  a  boat? 
Was  ye  no  feart  the  boat  wud  sail  awa'  wi'  ye?" 

"I— Iwishtithad!"    . 

"Ye  wisht  it  had?  Oh,  ye  bad,  stupid  boy!  .  .  . 
Noo,  tak'  the  things  oot  yer  pooches  till  I  clean  yer 
jayket.  Haste  ye  noo!  This  pooch — what's  in  it?" 

Jock  hesitated — and  was  lost.     The  next  moment 


JOCK  69 

his  aunt  jerked  sharply  forth  Jack  Transome;  or  The 
Gentleman  Pirate. 

"What's  this?  .  .  .  Oh!  ha'e  I  no'  warned  ye  no' 
to  read  ^ic  evil  trash  ?"  She  glared  at  the  paper. 

"Dinna  waste  it,"  cried  Jock.  "It's  no'  mines.  I 
promised  to  gi'e  it  back  to  Jamie  M'Meekin." 

"An'  I've  tell't  ye  no'  to  gang  wi'  Jamie  M'Meekin. 
He's  no'  a  nice  boy.  But  him  an'  you'll  be  better 
wantin'  this  trash."  So  saying,  she  tore  the  paper  in 
pieces  and  flung  them  on  the  fire. 

"I — I  hate  ye!"  screamed  the  boy. 

If  the  woman  winced,  it  was  but  slightly. 

"Ha'e  ye  ony  mair  o'  that  trash  on  ye?"  she  de- 
manded. "Aweel,  dinna  let  me  catch  ye  readin'  the 
like  again.  I  tell  ye,  ye'll  never  grow  to  be  a  guid 
man  if  ye  stap  yer  heid  wi'  trash,  an'  gang  aboot  wi' 
boys  like  thon  M'Meekin  laddie.  Mind  that!"  She 
poured  a  little  turpentine  on  a  scrap  of  flannel.  "Keep 
still  till  I  get  at  the  pent." 

"I  wisht  ma  fayther  wud  come  back,"  he  said,  check- 
ing a  sob. 

"I  wisht  he  wud!  But  I  doobt  he'll  be  vexed  to 
hear  o' " 

"He  wudna  be  vexed.  He  wud  let  me  gang  wi' 
Jamie,  an'  he  wud  let  me  read  stories,  an'  he  wud  let 
me  gang  oot  efter  tea,  an' " 

"Whisht!" 

There  was  silence  until  the  last  of  the  paint  was 
removed.  Then  Jock  carelessly  remarked  that  he  was 
going  out  for  a  little  while. 

"Na,"  said  his  aunt  decidedly.  "Ye've  been  oot 
plenty  the  day.  I'll  gi'e  ye  the  new  Missionary  Mail 
to  read,  an'  ye'll  jist  rest  yersel'  till  it's  time  to  gang 
to  the  prayer  meetin'  wi'  me.  This  is  Wednesday,  ye 
ken." 

Jock  made  a  grimace.     "I  dinna  want  to  read  the 


70  KIDDIES 

Missionary  Mail;  I  dinna  want  to  gang  to  the  prayer 
meetin'." 

"When  ye're  a  man  ye'll  be  gled  ye  did  baith." 

"When  I'm  a  man — I'll  be  a  pirate!"  he  declared 
wildly. 

"A  what?" 

"A  pirate!" 

"Tits,  laddie!    Dinna  haver!" 

"I'm  no'  haverin' !  An'  I  want  to  gang  oot  noo. 
I — I  was  to  gi'e  Jamie  back  his  paper — the  paper  ye — 
ye  stole." 

"Jock!"  she  said  sternly,  "dinna  dare  to  repeat  that. 
Ye  canna  gang  oot  the  nicht." 

"I — I'll  come  back  in  time  for  the  meetin'." 

Miss  Wishart  shook  her  head  and  proceeded  to  put 
away  the  turpentine. 

"If  ye  dinna  let  me  gang  oot,"  said  the  boy  furiously, 
"I'll — I'll  dae  something  ye  winna  like." 

"I  never  break  ma  word,"  she  returned  without  any 
emotion.  "Ye  maun  learn  to  be  obedient.  Some  dav 
ye'll  maybe  understan'  that  I  kent  best  what  was  guid 
for  ye.  See!  there's  the  new  Missionary  Mail 

Jock  dashed  the  paper  from  her  hand  and  rushed 
from  the  kitchen  into  the  parlour.  As  the  Gentleman 
Pirate  had  been  consumed  by  fire,  so  had  Jock's  nobler 
aspirations  been  burnt  up  by  hate.  Seizing  the  Pil- 
grim's Progress,  raising  it  as  high  as  he  could  reach, 
he  let  it  fall  upon  the  case  of  waxen  fruits.  To  his 
ears  the  moderate  crash  was  appalling.  For  an  instant 
he  stood  stunned.  Then  he  backed  away  to  the  furthest 
corner  of  the  room,  and,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
stared  stupidly  at  the  ruin  he  had  wrought. 

"What  was  that  noise?" 

Miss  Wishart  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"What " 

Her  voice  failed;  her  face  went  white;  her  fingers 


JOCK  71 

gripped  the  edge  of  the  door.  To  the  shivering  boy 
she  seemed  to  swell  and  then  collapse,  to  grow  smaller 
than  ever  he  had  seen  her. 

Slowly  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  wreckage;  for 
a  moment  they  rested  on  Jock,  and  a  quiver  passed 
over  her  face. 

"An'  it  was  ma  mither's  pride,"  she  murmured,  and 
went  shuffling  from  the  room.  A  minute  later  she 
came  back. 

"Ye  can  gang  oot,  if  ye  want,"  she  said  in  a  colour- 
less tone  of  voice,  without  looking  at  him.  Once  more 
she  retired,  and  Jock  heard  the  kitchen  door  close  be- 
hind her. 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Was  this  the  sweet* 
ness  of  revenge?  .  .  . 

In  the  kitchen  Miss  Wishart  was  on  her  knees. 

"O  Lord,  I  didna  mean  for  him  to  hate  me,"  she 
muttered  over  and  over  again. 

An  hour  dragged  past.  The  boy  got  his  cap  and 
stole  from  the  house. 

He  avoided  the  usual  haunts  of  Jamie  M'Meekin 
and  the  other  lads  of  his  acquaintance,  not  altogether 
because  of  the  destruction  of  the  Gentleman  Pirate, 
for  which  he  would  have  to  account.  He  desired  to 
reach  the  docks  unobserved — to  make  another  desperate 
effort  for  what  he  imagined  to  be  freedom.  So  far  he 
had  been  less  lucky  than  the  boys  of  whom  he  had 
read,  the  boys  who  had  won  safely  to  sea  at  the  very 
first  attempt.  But  he  was  going  to  try  again.  Most 
of  the  labour  at  the  quayside  would  soon  be  over  for 
the  day,  and  he  might  manage  to  slip  on  board  a  ves- 
sel. And  after?  Well,  none  of  the  boys  in  the  stories 
had  died  of  starvation ;  true,  they  had  all  been  com- 
pelled to  face  an  angry  captain  and  afterwards  work 
tremendously  hard;  but  eventually  they  had  become 
captains  themselves. 


72  KIDDIES 

Yet  Jock's  reason  for  flight  had  changed — though 
perhaps  he  did  not  fully  realise  how  much — since  the 
morning.  Then  and  previously  he  had  sought  to  es- 
cape from  his  aunt's  restraint ;  now  he  fled  because  that 
restraint  had  been  removed.  Shame  and  the  belief 
that  she  would  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  him  took  the  place 
of  the  old  resentment,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip  as  he  hurried  along.  Indeed, 
when  he  turned  into  the  Broomielaw,  and  saw  the  tow- 
ering masts  and  funnels  of  many  hues,  his  eyes  began 
to  blink  in  a  most  annoying  fashion,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  halt  at  the  barred  window  of  a  money-chang- 
er, and  pretend  to  be  mightily  interested  in  the  coins 
and  notes  on  view. 

Having  pulled  himself  together,  he  set  out  once 
more,  walking  quicker  and  quicker  until  unconsciously 
he  broke  into  a  smart  trot.  The  dock  was  in  sight. 

All  at  once  his  arm  was  gripped.  He  cried  out  in 
terror. 

"Jock! — surely  it's  wee  Jock!" 

He  looked  up  into  the  kindly  brown  face  of  a  big 
bearded  man,  with  a  great  bundle  on  his  shoulder. 
And  all  his  troubles  vanished. 

"Fayther!" 

"Was  ye  comin'  to  meet  me,  ma  mannie?"  his  father 
asked  presently. 

Jock  blushed  and  shook  his  head. 

"Of  course  ye  couldna  ken,"  said  the  man  cheer- 
fully. "I  dinna  write,  for  I  saw  I'd  be  hame  as  quick's 
ma  letter,  an'  I  thought  I'd  gi'e  ye  a  surprise.  .  .  . 
Hey!" 

The  last  observation  was  addressed  to  a  cabby,  and 
a  minute  later,  to  Jock's  amazement,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  experience,  he  was  being  driven  in  a  cab. 
His  father  put  an  arm  round  him  and  poured  out  ques- 


JOCK  73 

tions,  some  of  which  Jock  contrived  to  answer.  Al- 
ready the  boy's  happiness  was  becoming  alloyed.  What 
would  his  aunt  tell  his  father? 

He  had  no  words  at  all  as  they  climbed  the  three 
flights  of  stairs,  and  when  they  halted  at  the  door  he 
was  the  most  miserable  lad  in  the  world. 

Before  his  father  could  knock,  however,  the  door  was 
opened. 

"Ye've  got  hame,  Peter,"  said  Miss  Wishart  calmly. 
"I  seen  ye  comin'  up  the  street.  Gled  to  see  ye. 
Whaur  did  Jock  meet  ye?" 

"Near  the  dock.  It  was  clever  o'  him  to  guess  I 
wud  be  there — eh,  Marget?" 

"Mphm!"  Miss  Wishart  replied  rather  drily. 

"An'  hoo's  a'  wi  ye?"  inquired  Peter,  strolling  into 
the  parlour.  "Save  us!  What  a  smash!  Hoo  did 
ye  manage  to  break  yer  mither's  braw " 

"Aw,  never  heed  it,"  she  said  quickly.  "It  was  a — 
an  accident.  It's  o'  nae  consequence.  Come  ben  to  the 
kitchen.  The  kettle'll  be  bilin'  direc'ly.  I  pit  it  on 
whenever  I  seen  ye  come  roun'  the  corner.  .  .  .  Jock, 
rin  oot  an'  get  twa  pair  o'  kippers.  Here's  the  money." 

After  all,  it  was  a  happy  evening  for  Jock. 

When  the  boy  had  gone  to  bed,  the  father  refilled  his 
pipe  and  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"An'  so  ye've  got  a  ship  o'  yer  ain,  Peter,"  said  Miss 
Wishart  at  last.  "Ye're  a  captain  noo." 

"Ay,"  said  Peter,  emitting  a  long  puff.  "She's  wait- 
in'  for  me  at  Sydney." 

"At  Sydney!" 

"Ay — New  South  Wales.  Ye  see,  I  didna  tell  ye 
a'  the  news  when  Jock  was  there.  He'll  get  the  rest 
the  morn.  But  maybe  I  best  tell  ye  noo."  He  brought 
out  a  pocket-book  and  extracted  some  papers.  He 
handed  one  to  his  sister-in-law.  "That's  a  pictur'  o' 


74  KIDDIES 

ma  ship.    She'll  be  tradin'  between  Sydney  an'  Japan." 

Miss  Wishart  regarded  the  photograph  without 
speaking. 

"An'  this,"  went  on  her  brother-in-law,  not  without 
hesitation — "this  is  a  pictur'  o'  ma  wife.  I  got  mairrit 
afore  I  left  Sydney,  but  I  thought  the  news  wud  keep 
till  I  saw  ye." 

"Yer  wife!" 

"Marget!  I  hope  ye're  no'  offendid  at  me  mairryin' 
again." 

After  a  short  silence  she  said: 

"Na,  I'm  no'  offendit,  Peter.  Ye're  young  yet,  an' 
— an'  I  suppose  it's  nateral.  .  .  .  She's  bonny  enough." 

Peter  looked  relieved. 

"Ay,  she's  bonny,"  he  said  softly;  "but  that's  no' 
the  best  o'  her.  She's  guid  an'  she's  kind.  She'll  be 
guid  an'  kind  to  Jock — I'm  sure  o'  that !" 

"Kind  to— Jock!" 

"Ay;  for,  ye  see,  Jock'll  sail  wi'  me  this  day  week, 
an' " 

"This  day  week!" 

"I  canna  manage  it  sooner.  I'm  thinkin'  ye'll  be 
gled  to  be  quit  o'  the  laddie,"  he  laughed.  "I  ken  ye're 
fond  o'  peace  an'  quietness,  Marget,  an'  I'm  feart  the 
laddie  has  been  a  sair  trouble.  But  I'll  never  forget 
what  ye've  done  for  him  an'  me.  .  .  .  Are  ye  no'  weel, 
Marget?  Ye're  awfu'  white." 

The  photographs  slipped  from  her  lap,  and  she 
stooped  to  pick  them  up. 

"I'm  jist  ma  usual,"  she  replied  quietly.  "But  I'm 
a  wee  thing  wearit  the  nicht.  I  was  for  gaun  to  the 
prayer  meetin',  if  ye  hadna  come,"  she  continued  ir- 
relevantly, handing  him  the  photographs,  and  glancing 
at  the  clock.  "It's  near  twal'.  Wud  ye  like  ham  or 
haddies  for  yer  breakfast?" 


JOCK  75 

Peter  declared  his  choice,  and  went  to  bed. 

The  week  sped  past.  The  hour  of  Peter's  and  his 
son's  departure  came. 

At  the  last  moment,  Miss  Wishart  beckoned  Peter 
into  the  parlour,  leaving  Jock,  wild  with  excitement, 
on  the  stair-landing. 

"I  didna  need  a'  the  money  ye've  been  sendin'  for 
Jock,"  she  said,  and  pressed  a  small  bundle  of  pound- 
notes  into  his  hand.  "Keep  it  for  his  eddication,  but 
dinna  tell  him." 

Peter  protested. 

"Tak'  it,"  she  insisted,  "or  I'll  ha'e  to  post  it  to  ye, 
an'  that  wud  be  a  waste  o'  money.  Say  nae  mair.  I've 
got  a'  I  need.  An',  Peter " 

"What,  Marget?" 

"Ye'll  see  that  Jock  gangs  to  the  kirk  reg'lar,  an' 
ye'll  no'  let  him  read  trash  nor  get  into  bad  comp'ny, 
Peter?" 

"I'll  dae  ma  best,  Marget — an'  so  will  Bessie." 

"I'm  dependin'  on  yersel',  Peter." 

"Weel,  I  promise.  An'  when  I  mak'  ma  fortune 
we'll  a'  come  hame  an'  see  ye.  An'  Jock'll  write  to 
ye  often.  An'  some  day  he'll  thenk  ye  better  nor  his 
fayther " 

"I'm  thinkin'  it's  time  ye  was  awa',"  she  said,  mov- 
ing to  the  door. 

She  took  the  boy's  hand. 

"Fear  the  Lord  an'  trust  Him,  an'  ye'll  never  be 
pit  to  shame."  Her  voice  quavered  slightly.  "Guid- 
bye,  Jock.  .  .  .  Guid-bye,  Peter." 

She  re-entered  the  house  and  shut  the  door. 

"What  wey  did  ye  no'  kiss  yer  auntie,  Jock?"  asked 
Peter  as  they  went  downstairs. 

"I  never  done  that.  I  think  she  wudna  like  it,"  said 
Jock,  who  had  somehow  got  a  lump  in  his  throat. 


76  KIDDIES 

"That's  queer,"  remarked  his  father.  "Maybe  she'll 
be  wavin'  frae  the  window." 

They  turned  and  gazed  upwards.  But  the  window 
was  blank. 


VII 
MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART 


"AN*  instead  o'  sittin'  there  complainin'  aboot  every- 
thing, ye  should  be  praisin'  Providence  for  a'  it's  done 
for  ye." 

With  these  words  Mrs.  Logic  concluded  her  re- 
marks, the  delivery  of  which  had  occupied  twelve  min- 
utes exactly  by  the  kitchen  clock. 

"I've  heard  a'  that  afore,"  retorted  the  big,  sturdy- 
looking  old  man,  making  vicious  and  unnecessary  dabs 
with  the  poker  at  the  bright  fire. 

"Can  ye  no'  let  the  fire  be?"  his  wife  exclaimed. 

"I've  naething  else  to  dae,"  he  said  crossly.  "An'  as 
for  praisin'  Providence,  dae  ye  want  me  to  praise  it 
because  yer  kizzen  dee'd  last  year?" 

"Mockery  ill  becomes  ye,  Sam,"  she  replied  sternly. 

"There's  nae  mockery  aboot  it.  Guid  kens  I  wish 
yer  kizzen  was  leevin'  yet,  though  I  never  seen  him. 
But  seein'  he  had  to  dee,  I  wish  he  had  left  his  siller  to 
the  King  o'  the  Cannibal  Islands,  or " 

"I  jist  hope  ma  puir  kizzen  Weeliam  canna  hear  ye 
noo.  Yer  ingratitude  wud  gi'e  a  sair  hert  even  to  an 
angel." 

"Strikes  me,"  said  Mr.  Logic,  letting  the  poker  fall 
with  a  clatter  on  the  fender — "strikes  me  yer  kizzen's 
liker  to  be  laughin'  at  you  an'  me." 

"Laughin'?" 

"Ay;  at  the  trick  his  siller  played  on  us." 

"Samuel    Logic!"    she    cried    indignantly,    "where 

77 


78  KIDDIES 

wud  ye  be  the  noo,  if  it  hadna  been  for  the  siller?" 

"At  ma  work,  wife — at  ma  work,"  he  answered,  half 
wrathfully,  half  wistfully.  "I  tell  ye,  Janet,  that  siller 
has  been  a  curse,  an'  naething  but  a  curse." 

Mrs.  Logic  restrained  her  temper,  which  was  rather 
a  brisk  one. 

"Ye  ken  fine  ye're  jist  haverin',  Sam.  Read  yer 
novelle  an'  content  yersel'."  Glancing  at  the  clock,  she 
added:  "It's  time  I  was  makin'  the  tea.  I'll  get  ye 
yer  sustainer." 

Mr.  Logic  sent  a  paper-covered  volume  fluttering 
across  the  room.  "I'm  sick  o'  novelles,  an'  I'm  sick 
o'  meddicines,  an'  I'm " 

"Whisht,  man,  whisht!  Dinna  excite  yersel'.  It's 
bad  for  yer  hert." 

"Oh,  haud  yer  tongue  aboot  ma  hert,"  he  shouted. 
"There's  naething  wrang  wi'  ma  hert,  an'  never  was." 

"Weel,  weel;  ha'e  it  yer  ain  way,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  meant  to  be  soothing. 

"But  I'm  tellin'  ye  there's  naething  wrang  wi'  ma 
hert.  D'ye  hear  me,  Janet?" 

"Ay,  I  hear  ye,  dearie,"  she  murmured,  hoping  the 
neighbours  did  not.  During  the  past  year  she  had  had 
frequent  occasion  to  deal  with  his  fractious  moods ;  but 
this  looked  like  open  rebellion,  and  she  felt  unpre- 
pared. 

"An*  d'ye  hear  me  tellin'  ye?"  he  roared,  "there 
never  was  onything  wrang  wi'  ma  hert — never!" 

"Jist  that — jist  that,"  she  muttered  agreeably,  and 
peeped  through  the  window  screen.  It  was  growing 
dark,  and  to  her  relief  none  of  the  villagers  appeared  to 
be  abroad.  "Weel,  Sam,"  she  said  presently,  "wud 
ye  like  yer  sustainer  in  a  spune,  or  a  gless,  or  a  egg- 
cup,  this  time?" 

"I  wud  prefer  it  tied  up  in  a  bit  paper,"  he  sourly 
replied. 


\  MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  79 

She  brought  it  in  an  egg-cup — the  most  novel  method 
of  administration  she  had  been  able  to  invent  At  first 
he  made  as  if  to  throw  it  into  the  fire,  but,  catching  her 
eye,  he  grunted  and  swallowed  the  brown  mess  at  a 
gulp. 

"Janet!"  he  announced  abruptly,  "I'm  gaun  oot  to 
seek  a  job  the  morn's  mornin'." 

Her  wrinkled  countenance  lost  some  of  its  healthy 
russet  colour,  but  she  retorted  firmly — 

"Ye  best  no'  try  it!" 

"But  there's  naething  wrang  wi'  me,"  he  protested. 

"Ha'e  ye  forgot  what  the  bookie  says?"  she  de- 
manded. 

Under  his  breath  he  consigned  "the  bookie"  to  the 
infernal  regions. 

"What's  that  ye  said,  Samuel?" 

"Ach!  I  wish  we  had  never  seen  the  bookie!"  he 
snapped. 

"  'Deed,  man,  ye're  awfu'  crabbit  the  nicht,"  she 
sighed.  "I  doobt  ye'll  ha'e  to  get  a  dose  o'  the  other 
bottle  afore  ye  gang  to  yer  bed." 

"De'il  tak'  yer  dirty  wee  bottles!  What  I'm  needin' 
is  a  big  bottle  o'  whusky  an'  a  pipe." 

Mrs.  Logic  threw  up  her  hands  in  horror. 

"An'  a  day  at  the  curlin'  when  the  frost's  here.  An' 
reg'lar  work  at  other  times,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  but  ye  ken  ye  canna  get  thae  things,"  she  said 
gently.  "I  wish  ye  could.  But  ye  mind  what  the 
bookie  says?  'The  patient  must  avoid  all  pheesical 
strain  and  mental  excitement.'  "  She  had  the  words  by 
heart. 

"Am  I  never  to  get  ma  tea?"  he  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently. 

Shortly  after  the  receipt  of  the  legacy  by  his  spouse, 
Mr.  Logic,  who  followed  the  trade  of  stonemason,  had 


8o  KIDDIES 

been  seized  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  not  quite 
well.  He  was  then  in  his  sixty-seventh  year,  and,  along 
with  Mrs.  Logic,  held  in  profound  distrust  the  medi- 
cal profession,  probably  because,  in  spite  of  the  doc- 
tors, every  one  died  sooner  or  later.  Mr.  Logic  diag- 
nosed his  own  trouble,  stated  it  plainly  as  "something 
wrang  wi'  ma  inside,"  and  tried  several  homely  reme- 
dies, without,  perhaps,  giving  any  one  of  them  a  fair 
trial.  Mrs.  Logic  consulted  her  neighbours  about  her 
man's  condition,  and  from  one  of  them  obtained  a 
booklet  which  the  neighbour  had  received  from  a  sis- 
ter-in-law, who  had  picked  it  up  in  a  railway  carriage. 
To  be  brief,  the  booklet  informed  Mr.  Logic  that  he 
was  the  owner  of  a  weak  heart. 

The  grief  and  dismay  of  the  old  couple  were  intense, 
but  gradually  they  began  to  take  comfort  from  the 
very  thing  that  had  stricken  the  blow.  The  booklet  did 
not,  to  be  sure,  hold  out  any  hope  of  a  weak  heart  be- 
coming strong,  but  it  did  show  how  a  weak  heart  might 
be  prevented  from  becoming  weaker.  The  patient,  as 
Mrs.  Logic  often  quoted,  must  needs  avoid  "all  physi- 
cal strain  and  mental  excitement,"  and,  further,  must 
abstain  from  alcohol  and  tobacco.  It  was  then  that 
the  Logics  blessed  the  cousin  whose  legacy  made  them 
independent  of  Samuel's  weekly  wage;  it  was  then, 
also,  that  Janet  bought  the  first  of  many  postal  orders 
for  4$.  6d.f  to  be  exchanged  for  bottles  of  the  "Sus- 
tainer"  mentioned  in  large  type  on  every  page  of  the 
booklet. 

Despite  the  shock  of  the  dread  truth,  however,  Mr. 
Logic  took  his  trouble  bravely,  giving  up  his  pipe  and 
modest  glass  in  a  way  that  won  the  admiration  of  his 
neighbours,  though  he  was  apt  to  be  rather  irritable 
of  an  evening  when  alone  in  his  wife's  company.  He 
went  out  only  when  the  weather  was  very  fine,  and  his 
walk  was  cautious  antf  slow,  For  a  couple  of  months 


,MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  81 

or  so  the  neighbours  could  not  pay  him  enough  atten- 
tion, regarding  him  with  a  sort  of  awe-stricken  venera- 
tion as  the  man  who  might  "drap  deid"  at  any  mo- 
ment. They  visited  him  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and 
kept  him  company  by  the  kitchen  fireside  and,  not  in- 
frequently, at  the  kitchen  table.  Sometimes  they 
brought  little  gifts  of  farm  produce,  or  lent  him  vol- 
umes of  distant  date,  tattered  or  well-preserved,  which 
they  might  not  have  read  themselves.  Mr.  Logic  re- 
ceived their  visits  and  offerings  with  a  lofty  dignity, 
and  discussed  his  symptoms — which,  to  tell  the  truth, 
were  not  nearly  so  terrifying  as  his  hearers  could  have 
desired — with  something  approaching  satisfaction,  if 
not  positive  pride. 

But  time  went  on,  and,  as  Mr.  Logic  went  on  also, 
the  fickleness  of  human  interest  became  all  too  ap- 
parent. His  neighbours  gradually  ceased  their  visits, 
gifts,  and  loans;  they  even  forgot,  when  they  met  him 
in  the  village,  to  inquire  after  his  heart.  And  he,  in 
his  turn,  grew  apt  to  forget  their  past  kindnesses,  and 
was  ready  to  take  offence  if  any  one  ventured  a  joke 
in  his  presence.  Altogether,  at  the  end  of  a  twelve- 
month from  the  discovery  of  "the  bookie,"  he  was  fast 
becoming  a  miserable  old  man  and  making  his  wife  a 
wretched  old  woman. 

While  they  were  at  tea  the  postman  brought  a  let- 
ter directed  to  Mrs.  Logic.  As  the  old  couple  had 
seven  children,  now  settled  in  different  parts  of  the 
country,  letters  were  not  exactly  rare  occurrences,  yet 
the  receipt  of  one  always  caused  a  little  flutter. 

"Whaur's  ma  specs?"  cried  Mrs.  Logic. 

"Never  heed  yer  specs,"  said  her  husband,  with  some 
eagerness,  "I'll  read  it." 

"Na,  na.  I  maun  read  it  masel'.  It's  for  me,  ye 
ken."  And  she  bustled  about  in  search  of  the  mislaid 


82  KIDDIES 

spectacles,  while  Mr.  Logie  made  impatient  remarks 
and  suggestions. 

"Ye're  aye  lossin'  yer  specs.  Can  ye  no'  keep  them 
aye  in  the  same  place?  When  had  ye  them  on  last? 
I  believe  I  seen  ye  gaun  oot  to  the  hen-hoose  wi'  them 
on.  Ye'll  ha'e  left  them  irf  a  nest  likely,  an'  the  hen'll 
be  layin'  gless  eggs!" 

Mrs.  Logie  was  too  anxious  in  her  search  to  laugh, 
and  the  omission  annoyed  Samuel. 

"A  fine  thing  it  wud  be  if  the  letter  had  been  a 
telegram  and  somebody  waitin'  on  a  reply !  Guid-sake ! 
are  ye  never  gaun  to  find  them?  Can  ye  no'  mind 
what  ye  did  wi'  them?  Ye  should  tie  them  roun'  yer 
neck.  It's  aye  the  same  story — aye  the  same  story! — 

ye  never  can  find  yer  specs  when Oh,  ye've  got 

them?  Weel,  weel,  wonders'll  never  cease! — that's  a' 
I  can  say  aboot  it.  Wha's  yer  letter  f rae  ?" 

"Wait  till  I  get  them"  clean,  Sam,"  she  said,  seating 
herself  and  breathing  on  the  glasses.  "They've  got 
something  sticky  on  them.  I  canna  think  what  it  is." 

"Oh,  there's  nae  hurry  for  a  day  or  twa.  An',  of 
course,  the  proper  place  to  keep  yer  specs  is  whaur 
they'll  get  nice  and  sticky.  Oh,  ay!  Ye  should  try 
keeping  them  in  the  jam-pot!" 

"If  ye  dinna  haud  yer  tongue,"  she  said  quietly, 
"I'll  no'  read  ye  the  letter." 

He  was  silent,  and  ere  long  she  got  her  spectacles 
adjusted.  But  she  conned  the  letter  through  before 
giving  him  its  contents. 

"It's  frae  Marget's  man,"  she  said  at  last,  with  ani- 
mation in  her  voice.  "Marget's  got  anither — a  wee 
lassie — baith  weel.  That's  Marget's  tenth,  Sam.  Are 
ye  no'  proud?" 

"It  wud  ha'e  been  better  to  ha'e  been  a  boy." 

"Tits,  man !  .  .  .  There's  no'  muckle  else  in  the  let- 
ter, excep'  that  wee  Johnny's  no'  been  awfu'  weel. 


MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  83 

Marget  an'  her  man  wud  like  if  we  wud  talc'  him  for 
a  week  or  twa ;  but,"  she  sighed,  "that  canna  be." 

"Which  is  Johnny?" 

"Johnny's  the  seeventh.  He's  next  to  Rubbert.  He's 
never  been  here." 

"An'  what  way  can  he  no'  come  here?" 

"Oh,  Samuel,  ye  ken  fine!  Ye  couldna  thole  a 
steerin'  laddie  in  the  hoose.  Mind  what  the  bookie 
says :  'Avoid  all  pheesical '  " 

"Havers!  Let  the  laddie  come.  If  he  doesna  be- 
have, I'll  punish  him!" 

"But  that  wud  be  pheesical " 

"Ha'e  I  no'  tell't  ye  that  there's  naething  wrang 
wi'  me?" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  He  had  never  been  so 
difficult  to  manage  as  just  now. 

"We  canna  ha'e  the  laddie  here,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Logic  banged  his  great  fist  on  the  table  so  that 
the  dishes  jumped. 

"If  ye  dinna  write  this  vera  nicht,  Janet,  biddin' 
the  laddie  to  come,  an'  welcome,  I'll — I'll  see  aboot  a 
job  the  morn's  mornin',"  he  shouted,  "even  if  it's  jist 
breakin'  stanes  at  the  roadside."  He  paused,  and  sud- 
denly his  voice  softened.  "There  noo,  wife!  Ye're 
no'  to  greet.  Ye  ken  fine  ye  want  to  see  the  laddie 
yersel'." 

"But — but,  Sam,  dearie,  ye'll  be  awfu'  cautious,  an' 
no'  get  ony  pheesical " 

"It's  a  bit  mental  excitement  I'm  wantin' !" 

"Oh,  but  that's  jist  as  bad." 

"Aweel,  weel,  I'll  dae  onything  ye  like — if  ye  bid 
the  laddie  here.  I'm  no'  in  favour  o'  sudden  death, 
auld  wife,  but  I  dinna  want  to  dee  o'  readin'  novelles 
an'  suppin'  meddicine — an'  that's  what  I'm  like  to  dae 
the  noo.  Bid  the  laddie!" 

And  so  the  laddie  was  bidden. 


84  KIDDIES 


ii 

He  came  in  the  last  week  of  the  year.  His  grand- 
father wanted  very  much  to  meet  him  at  the  station, 
nearly  a  mile  distant  from  the  village,  but  his  grand- 
mother insisted  on  taking  the  duty — or  was  it  pleasure  ? 
— upon  herself. 

"Na,  na,  Sam,"  she  said.  "The  road's  that  frosty. 
If  ye  was  sittin'  doon,  ye  wud  never  get  up  again." 
She  refrained  from  referring  to  the  length  of  the  road 
and  her  husband's  slowness  of  movement.  "I'll  jist 
gang  masel',  an'  you'll  be  waitin'  at  the  fireside  for 
yer  gran 'son.  Eh?" 

"Jist  as  ye  like,"  said  Mr.  Logic  rather  sulkily. 
"If  I'm  in  the  fire  when  ye  get  back,  ye'll  ken  wha's 
to  blame;  an'  I  hope  ye'll  explain  the  matter  to  ye 
gran'son.  Folk  wi'  wake  herts  whiles  ha'e  faintin' 
turns." 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Logic  decided  to  ask  a  neighbour 
to  meet  the  boy,  and  her  husband,  having  vainly  tried 
to  reassure  her  that  he  had  only  been  joking,  cursed 
himself  bitterly  in  secret  and  poked  the  fire  viciously 
for  a  long  dismal  hour,  while  she  made  treacle  scones, 
which  she  had  meant  to  hold  back  for  another  day,  for 
"the  wean's  tea."  When  the  scones  were  made,  she 
occupied  the  remaining  minutes  by  running  between 
the  fire  and  the  door,  stopping  occasionally  to  add  some 
unnecessary  touch  to  the  tea-table,  and  begging  her 
man  not  to  get  mentally  excited,  or  advising  him  that 
there  was  as  yet  no  sign  of  Johnny. 

When  Johnny  did  arrive — he  would  probably  have 
been  a  vast  disappointment  to  any  people  save  his  grand- 
parents— a  pasty-faced,  spindle-shanked  child  of  seven, 
obviously  city-bred — Mr.  Logic  was  seated  by  the  fire, 
smiling  blandly  and  stroking  his  long  grey  whiskers, 
of  which  he  was,  perhaps,  unduly  conceited. 


MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  85 

"What  funny  whuskers!  Are  they  real?"  was  the 
remark  of  the  boy  on  escaping  from  his  grandmother's 
embrace. 

She  trembled  at  what  might  happen,  but  her  spouse 
laughed  heartily. 

"Come  here,  Johnny,  till  I  gi'e  ye  beardie!"  he 
called. 

"Nae  fears!  I'm  ower  fly  for  ye!"  retorted 
Johnny. 

Mr.  Logic  laughed  more  heartily  than  before. 

"Come  an'  shake  hauns  wi'  yer  gran'paw,"  he  said 
briskly. 

"Are  you  ma  gran'paw?"  asked  the  boy,  advancing 
slowly.  "I  thought  ma  gran'paw  wasna  weel." 

"Oh,  ay,  I'm  yer  gran'paw — an'  I  never  felt  bet- 
ter." He  seized  the  youngster  and  lifted  him  upon  his 
knee. 

"Canny,  Sam,  be  canny,"  wailed  Mrs.  Logic.  "Mind 
what  the  bookie  says  aboot  pheesical " 

"Dinna  fash  yersel',  auld  wife,"  he  replied,  kindly 
enough.  "I'll  be  carefu'.  The  laddie's  no'  heavy." 

"Stop  it!"  exclaimed  Johnny,  in  aggrieved  tones. 
"Yer  whuskers  is  ticklin'  me!" 

Mr.  Logic  roared  delighted. 

And  so  began  the  first  really  happy  evening  the 
Logics  had  spent  for  a  year.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Lo- 
gic had  her  moments  of  acute  anxiety,  as  when  her 
husband  started  to  joggle  his  grandson  on  his  knee  to 
the  old  refrain  of  "This  is  the  way  the  horses  go" — 
which  form  of  entertainment  the  youngster,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  considered  several  years  beneath  him. 

Johnny  celebrated  his  first  morning  in  the  cottage 
by  detaching  the  pendulum  from  the  grandfather  clock, 
the  hands  of  which,  to  his  great  gratification,  began 
to  revolve  at  an  amazing  rate  of  speed,  while  it  struck 


86  KIDDIES 

the  hours  every  minute.  It  happened,  fortunately,  be- 
fore Mr.  Logic  was  up — he  usually  had  breakfast  in 
bed,  and  hated  it — and  Mrs.  Logic,  in  a  fever  of  ap- 
prehension, explained  to  him  that  she  had  done  it  while 
dusting  the  interior  of  the  clock ;  the  first  deliberate  lie 
of  her  wedded  life. 

The  morning  being  wet,  Johnny  was  kept  indoors. 
He  was,  however,  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  suggested 
— or,  rather,  insisted  on — playing  at  Pirates.  His 
grandfather,  to  his  grandmother's  dismay,  assisted  him 
to  turn  the  kitchen-table  upside  down,  and  then  obliged 
him  by  seating  himself  in  it,  in  an  attitude  anything 
but  comfortable  for  a  big,  burly  old  gentleman. 

"You're  the  merchantman,"  explained  Johnny,  who 
was  scraping  about  the  floor,  stride-legs  on  a  stool. 
"An'  I'm  gaun  to  attack  ye.  I'll  gi'e  ye  a  broadside 
to  begin  wi'.  Ready,  present,  fire — boom!" 

Mr.  Logic  received  a  ball  of  newspaper  between  the 
eyes,  and  after  the  first  surprise  quaked  and  quacked 
with  laughter. 

"Noo  I'm  gaun  to  board  ye,"  yelled  Johnny,  and 
would  have  cast  himself  bodily  on  the  old  man,  had 
not  Mrs.  Logic,  with  a  screech  of  alarm,  rushed  for- 
ward and  snatched  the  Pirate  into  her  arms. 

"That's  no'  fair,"  complained  the  Pirate.  "Two 
to  one's  no'  fair.  If  ye  wasna  ma  granny,  I  wud  gi'e 
ye  a  broadside  on  the  nose." 

"Dearie,  dearie,"  pleaded  the  old  woman.  "Ye 
maun  be  canny  wi'  yer  gran'paw.  He's  no'  strong." 

"Aw,  baud  yer  tongue,  Janet,"  cried  Mr.  Logic. 
"I'm  enjoyin'  masel'  fine.  Let  the  laddie  be." 

"Will  I  gi'e  her  a  broadside,  gran'paw?"  asked 
Johnny  eagerly,  as  he  squeezed  up  a  fresh  sheet  of  news- 
paper. "I'll  gi'e  her  it  saft-like." 

"Na,  na,  laddie.  Jist  gi'e  me  the  broadside."  Which 
order  Johnny  promptly  obeyed,  causing  Mr.  Logic  to 


i  MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  87 

touch  the  point  of  his  nose  gingerly  and  then  examine 
the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"Is't  bleedin'?"  the  boy  inquired,  with  possibly  more 
interest  than  anxiety. 

"Oh,  this'll  never  dae,"  wailed  Mrs.  Logic,  clutch- 
ing her  grandson.  "Get  up  on  yer  chair,  Samuel,  afore 
ye  suffer  serious.  It — it's  time  for  the  Sustainer." 

"I'll  ha'e  nae  Sustainer  the  day,  auld  wife!" 

"Oh,  Sam,  dearie!" 

"Aw,  weel,  onything  to  please  ye."  Mr.  Logic,  with 
unexpected  agility,  scrambled  from  the  "merchantman" 
to  his  easy-chair. 

Johnny  forgot  his  sulks  in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his 
grandfather  swallow  the  egg-cupful  of  brown  horror, 
and  his  delight  was  not  diminished  when  the  fact  came 
out  that,  deceived  by  the  unadjusted  clock,  his  grand- 
mother had  administered  the  dose  a  couple  of  hours  too 
soon. 

The  afternoon  turned  out  fine  and  mild,  and  Mr. 
Logic  suggested  taking  Johnny  for  a  walk.  His  wife 
demurred,  but  without  avail.  She,  however,  made 
Johnny  promise  not  to  run  away  from  his  grandfather, 
and  Samuel  not  to  run  after  his  grandson. 

"What  wey  can  ye  no'  rin?"  inquired  the  boy  when 
they  had  set  forth. 

"It  doesna  suit  me  to  rin,  laddie,"  replied  Mr.  Logic, 
remembering  his  out-of-doors  dignity  and  caution. 

"But  ye  can  jump?"  said  Johnny  hopefully,  scoring 
a  line  across  the  road  with  his  heel.  "I'll  try  ye 
which'll  jump  the  furdest.  Eh?" 

"I  doot  I  canna  jump  either,  laddie." 

"Weel,  can  ye  hop?" 

"Na,  na.    I  canna  hop." 

"What  can  ye  dae?" 

"Jist  walk." 

"Can  ye   no'   walk   quicker?" 


88  KIDDIES 

"Na." 

"What's  wrang  wi'  ye?    Are  ye  ower  fat?" 

Mr.  Logic  smiled  ruefully.  "Maybe  I  am  ower  fat," 
he  said.  "I  get  fat  wi'  no'  workin'.  But  it's  ma  hert 
that  keeps  me  frae  rinnin'  an'  jumpin'  an'  so  on.  Ma 
hert's  wake." 

"I  wudna  like  to  be  you,"  said  Johnny. 

"I  hope  ye'll  never  be,"  his  grandfather  replied  dully. 
He  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  he  had  exerted  himself 
too  much  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  day.  It  was 
one  thing  to  talk  recklessly  of  his  trouble  to  his  wife, 
when  he  knew  that  she  would  not  allow  him  to  do 
anything  dangerous ;  it  was  quite  another  thing  to  think 
of  it  while  she  was  absent. 

Johnny  found  the  walk,  taking  it  altogether,  rather 
uninteresting.  The  next  day  he  made  friends  with  the 
village  boys,  after  bleeding  a  nose  and  blackening  an 
eye  on  their  account  and  getting  a  swollen  lip  on  his 
own. 

Mrs.  Logic  was  relieved  at  the  change  for  her  man's 
sake,  but  he  was  more  irritable  and  irritating  than 
ever. 

in 

It  was  the  last  afternoon  of  the  year.  Mr.  Logic, 
with  the  bribe  of  threepence,  persuaded  his  grandson 
to  accompany  him  upon  a  stroll. 

"I'll  gang  wi'  ye,  if  ye'll  gang  beside  the  water," 
said  the  boy. 

Mr.  Logic  looked  furtively  around.  His  wife  had 
left  the  room.  He  was  not  allowed  to  take  the  river 
walk. 

"We'll  no'  say  whaur  we're  gaun,"  he  said  under 
his  breath.  "Come  on,  laddie." 

"Ye're  walkin'  quicker  nor  usual,"  Johnny  remarked 
as  they  left  the  cottage. 


MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  89 

"Am  I?"  said  Mr.  Logic,  and  immediately  slack- 
ened his  pace. 

"I  believe  ye  can  gang  quick,  if  ye  like,  gran'paw. 
I'll  race  ye  to  the  corner — for  a  penny." 

"Na,  na,  laddie." 

"I'll  gi'e  ye  a  start." 

"I  daurna  risk  it,"  the  old  man  replied.  "Ye  see, 
ma  hert's  wake." 

"What  wud  ye  dae  if  a  mad  bull,  or  a  ragin',  roarin' 
lion  was  efter  ye?"  inquired  Johnny  after  some  re- 
flection. 

"Guid  kens,"  muttered  Mr.  Logic.  "I  doobt  I  wud 
cry  on  yer  granny." 

"She  wudna  be  able  to  dae  onything.  The  mad 
bull  wud  dunch  her,  an'  the  lion  wud  eat  her  up  afore 
she  could  whustle.  Ye  wud  be  better  to  scoot  for  it, 
or  speel  up  a  tree." 

"I  dinna  think  that's  a  very  nice  thing  to  speak 
aboot,  John,"  said  Mr.  Logic,  a  trifle  severely.  "This," 
he  continued,  more  mildly,  "is  the  road  to  the  river. 
It's  gey  damp.  I  doobt  I  canna  risk  it." 

"Come  on!  Dinna  be  henny!"  cried  Johnny  en- 
couragingly. 

"Aweel,  I've  promised  ye,  so  I  suppose  I'll  ha'e  to 
gang.  But  ye're  to  keep  aside  me,  an'  no'  rin  furrit 
on  yer  ain  accoont,  mind!  The  water's  deep  wi'  the 
snaw  meltin'  on  the  hills,  an'  if  ye  was  fa'in'  in  ye  wud 
get  droondit  to  a  certainty." 

"Can  ye  no'  soom,  gran'paw?" 

"I  could  soom  when  I  was  younger.  Ay;  I  used  to 
gang  in  for  a  dook  every  day,  except  in  the  deid  o' 
winter.  But  I've  got  a  wake  hert,  laddie.  I've  got  a 
wake  hert  noo." 

They  walked  slowly  along  the  bank  until  Mr.  Logic, 
fearing  he  might  overtire  himself,  seated  himself  upon 


90  KIDDIES 

the  step  of  a  stile  leading  to  a  field.  The  boy  seated 
himself  also,  but  soon  became  impatient. 

"Na,  na,  laddie,"  Mr.  Logic  said  warningly,  "ye're 
no'  to  leave  me." 

"But  I  want  to  see  if  there's  ony  fish  in  the  water 
thonder."  He  pointed  down  the  stream. 

"Aweel,  we'll  gang  thonder  anither  day.  It's  time 
we  was  gettin'  hame." 

"But  I  want  to  see  noo.  Jist  you  bide  whaur  ye 
are,  gran'paw.  I'll  no'  be  long."  Johnny  laughed,  and 
ran  off. 

"Come  back,  laddie!  Come  back  this  meenute!" 
Mr.  Logic  rose  to  follow,  but  already  the  boy  was  many 
yards  away. 

"Come  back,  laddie !    It's  no'  safe !" 

The  old  man  moved  forward. 

"Stop,  I'm  tellin'  ye!    Johnny,  come  back!" 

Johnny  turned  his  laughing  face,  waved  his  hand, 
tripped,  fell,  and  rolled  over  the  bank. 

Mr.  Logic  halted,  threw  up  his  hands  and  screamed. 

Then  he  ran — ran — ran. 

The  boy  was  being  carried  down  by  the  current,  so 
that  the  man  had  a  longish  race  ere  he  plunged  into 
the  river,  after  clearing  himself  of  a  heavy  overcoat. 
When  he  struggled  out  with  his  unconscious  grandson, 
the  coat  came  in  handy  for  the  latter.  With  his  bur- 
den he  practically  ran  the  whole  way  home. 


IV 

The  young  doctor  came  out  of  the  little  room  where- 
in Johnny  had  been  put  to  bed. 

"The  boy's  all  right,"  he  said  cheerfully,  to  Mr. 
Logi-t,  who  sat,  a  mass  of  blankets  and  shawls,  by  the 
kitchen  fire.  "How  are  you  feeling  yourself,  Mr. 
Logic?" 


MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  91 

"No'  so  bad,  conseederin'."  He  had  no  faith  in  doc- 
tors for  himself,  but  for  his  grandson  it  was  different. 
Still,  here  was  a  chance  for  an  exposure  of  medical 
ignorance. 

"I  say,  doctor,"  he  said,  "can  ye  tell  when  a  man's 
hert  is  wake?" 

"I  daresay  I  can." 

"Weel,  what  d'ye  think  o'  mines?" 

"Yours?  Why,  you  don't  look  a  heart  subject — 

after  what  you  did  an  hour  ago.  But  if  you  wish " 

The  young  doctor  produced  a  stethoscope. 

"What's  that?" 

"To  hear  your  heart  with,  Mr.  Logic." 

"Aw !  I  thought  ye  could  tell  wi'  lookin'  at  me.  I 
used  to  be  bothered  wi'  a  pain — weel,  no'  exactly  a  pain 
— jist  here." 

"There?  But — that's  more  like  your  stomach,  Mr. 
Logie." 

"Na,  na!  It  was  ma  hert!  .  .  .  But  fire  awa'  wi' 
yer  black  penny  trumpet,  an'  see  what  ye  can  dae." 

The  young  doctor  "fired  away,"  and  shortly  reported 
the  heart  to  be  as  sound  as  a  bell. 

Mr.  Logie  said  nothing  at  all. 

"You  couldn't  have  done  what  you  did  to-day,"  said 
the  other,  "and  not  have  been  the  worse — probably  so 
much  the  worse  that  you  would  have  known  nothing 
about  it." 

"Ye  mean  deid?" 

"Exactly." 

"Weel,  I'm  no'  deid  onyway." 

The  young  doctor  laughed. 

"If  you  don't  mind  my  saying  it,  Mr.  Logie,"  he 
remarked,  becoming  grave,  "take  care  of  your  wife. 
You  gave  her  a  great  shock  when  you  arrived  with 
the  boy,  you  know,  and  she  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be 
too  strong.  Wants  feeding  up,  and  perhaps  a  tonic. 


92  KIDDIES 

I  thought  you  would  like  to  know."  It  was  perhaps 
not  quite  professional,  but  then  the  young  doctor  knew 
all  about  Logic  and  his  heart — had  known  for  months. 

About  nine  o'clock  that  night  Mr.  Logic,  who  had 
been  unusually  quiet  and  gentle  all  the  evening,  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  going  out  for  a  few  minutes. 
He  returned  with  a  bottle  of  whisky,  a  bottle  of  port 
wine,  some  clay  pipes,  and  a  couple  of  ounces  of  tobacco. 

"It's  the  last  nicht  o'  the  year,  wife,"  he  explained, 
"an5  ye  maun  ha'e  a  wee  gless  o'  port  jist  to  keep  me 
comp'ny  while  I  ha'e  a  wee  drap  whusky  an'  a  smoke." 

"Oh,  Sam!"  she  cried,  "it'll  be  fine  to  see  ye  en- 
joyin'  yersel'  again.  But  are  ye — are  ye  shair  it's  safe? 
I  ken  what  the  doctor  said,  but " 

"It  wasna  the  doctor;  it  was  the  laddie  that  proved 
to  me  that  ma  hert  wasna  wake.  Is  he  sleepin'  ?" 

"Soun'  as  a  top." 

"I  broocht  some  sweeties  for  him,  but  he'll  get  them 
the  morn,"  said  the  old  man  contentedly.  "Are  ye 
feelin'  better  yersel',  Janet?" 

"Me?  'Deed,  I  could  dance — I'm  that  happy  aboot 
ye,  Sam." 

"If  it  wasna  for  fear  o'  waukenin'  the  laddie,  I  wud 
dance  a  polka  wi'  ye  this  vera  meenute,  auld  wife." 
He  laughed,  but  it  was  a  very  soft  laugh.  "God !  it's 
a  great  relief!"  he  whispered. 

She  got  up  and  threw  her  arms  about  him. 

"But  there's  a  thing  that  troubles  me,"  he  said,  later. 
"It'll  be  an  awfu'  job  tellin'  a'  the  folk  that  there 
was  naething  wrang  wi'  me  a'  the  time.  I'll  be  that 
ashamed,  Janet,  an'  so  will  you.  They'll  be  sayin'  ma 
hert  isna  in  the  richt  place!"  He  laughed  feebly. 

"We  needna  tell  them  that.  We'll  jist  say  yer  hert's 
cured,"  she  answered. 

'  'Deed,  ye're  the  wise  wife !"  he  said,  and  began  to 
fill  his  pipe. 


MR.  LOGIE'S  HEART  93 

She  got  up  and  went  to  a  drawer  in  the  dresser. 
From  it  she  took  a  tin  box,  and  from  the  box  a  soiled 
and  tattered  booklet.  She  brought  it  over  to  him. 

"What's  this  for,  Janet?" 

"To  licht  yer  pipe  wi',  Sam!" 


VIII 
THE  LIMIT 

THE  afternoon  was  so  wet  and  stormy  that  Mrs. 
Burton,  after  she  had  dressed  herself,  made  up  her 
mind  that  no  one  would  call.  So  she  looked  into  the 
play-room  and  asked  Bobby  if  he  would  like  to  take 
tea  with  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

"You  can  bet  your  socks  I  would,"  was  his  prompt 
reply. 

Horrified,  she  exclaimed,  "You  must  not  say  such 
a  thing  again !" 

"All  right,  mother;  I  forgot  you  didn't  have  socks. 
But  you  can  bet- 


"You  ought  never  to  use  the  word  'bet' " 

"I've  heard  you  use  it" 

"When?" 

"One  night  you  told  daddy  you  would  bet  him  a 
pound  of  molasses  candy " 

"You  ought  to  have  been  sound  asleep,"  she  said, 
blushing. 

"Couldn't  get  to  sleep  for  you  two  talking." 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  put  you  in  another  room." 
(Bobby's  bedroom  was  connected  with  his  parents'  by 
a  door  oftener  open  than  shut.) 

"Then  there  would  be  no  one  to  waken  daddy  in 
the  morning.  I  say,  mother,  is  there  a  pink  cake  in 
the  drawing-room?" 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  idea,"  replied  Mrs.  Burton 
haughtily  and  untruthfully. 

94 


THE  LIMIT  95 

"Why  do  you  look  like  that,  mother? — just  like  a 
hen  taking  a  drink." 

"Hold  your  tongue!" 

"Why,  mother?" 

"Because  I  say  so." 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  then  he  said :  "You're 
awful  strange  to-day.  Have  you  got  a  headache?" 

"No,  I  have  not  got  a  headache." 

"What  have  you  got?" 

"Will  you  be  quiet?" 

There  was  another  pause  until  Bobby  sadly  re- 
marked: "I  don't  think  I  want  awfully  to  have  tea 
in  the  drawing-room.  Hope  you  don't  mind." 

"It  happens  that  I  wish  you  to  have  tea  in  the 
drawing-room.  I  also  wish  you  to  behave  as  if  visitors 
were  present." 

"Visitors  make  me  sick,"  said  Bobby. 

His  mother  made  a  clicking  sound  of  exasperation. 

"How  do  you  do  that  noise?"  he  inquired  with  in- 
terest. 

"I  intend,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  restraining  herself 
and  ignoring  the  question,  "to  give  you  a  lesson  in  how 
to  behave  when  visitors  call." 

"But  there  aren't  any  visitors." 

"We  shall  pretend "  she  began  stiffly. 

"Pretend!"  shrieked  Bobby  in  sudden  rapture.  "Oh, 
what  fun!  Come  on!"  And  he  flew  past  her  and 
downstairs,  chortling. 

It  was  not  quite  what  Mrs.  Burton  had  expected. 
A  smile  dawned,  and  by  the  time  she  reached  the  draw- 
ing-room her  irritation  had  evaporated.  After  all,  she 
had  been  annoyed  with  herself  mainly  for  allowing  her- 
self to  be  annoyed  with  Bobby. 

As  she  entered  the  room  he  greeted  her  with  the 
announcement  that  there  were  two  pink  cakes. 

"Are  there?    Well  you  shall  have  one — if  you  are 


96  KIDDIES 

very  good.  No,  dear,  not  both.  I'm  afraid  they  are 
terribly  rich.  But,  first  of  all,  I  will  give  you  your 
lesson.  Go  and  sit  down  on  that  chair — no,  the  low 
one." 

Bobby  obeyed — with  a  plump. 

"Not  on  the  very  corner.  Sit  in  the  middle,  straight 
up,  and  don't  sprawl  your  legs.  .  .  .  That's  better!" 

"It's  not  so  comfy." 

"Never  mind  about  that.  Now  you  are  to  imagine," 
Mrs.  Burton  proceeded,  gracefully  seating  herself  at 
the  tea-table,  "that  you  and  I  are  sitting  here,  enjoying 
a  little  chat " 

"And  a  pink  cake!" 

"That  may  come  later.    Enjoying  a  little  chat " 

"What  about,  mother?" 

"Hush !  You  must  not  interrupt.  Enjoying  a  little 
chat,"  she  repeated,  fearful  of  losing  the  thread,  "when 
Jane  opens  the  door  and  shows  in  a  lady." 

"Which  lady?" 

"Which  lady  would  you  like  to  have?  Well,  per- 
haps we  ought  to  have  a  pretend  lady " 

"Yes,"  cried  Bobby.  "Ever  so  much  nicer  than  real. 
Let's  call  her  Miss  Mumps." 

"Very  well,"  his  mother  assented,  after  a  little  hesi- 
tation. 

"Come  in,  Miss  Mumps,  and  stir  your  stumps!" 
Bobby  gaily  cried,  looking  towards  the  door. 

"No!  no!  no!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Burton,  and  sup- 
pressed a  giggle;  "you  must  not  make  fun  just  now." 

"But  Miss  Mumps  likes  fun,"  said  Bobby,  who  had 
already  formed  a  very  definite  idea  of  the  imaginary 
visitor. 

"Well,  perhaps  she  does,  but  we  don't  yet  know 
her  well  enough  for  that.  This  is  her  first  visit.  You 
see?" 

"J -see,"  he  said  more  soberly.    "What  next?" 


THE  LIMIT  97 

"Let  me  think,"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  yes.  Whei 
Miss — a — Mumps  comes  in,  you  rise — not  yet,  dear, 
not  yet — and  wait  until  I  have  shaken  hands  with  her. 
Then,  when  I  say,  'This  is  Bobby,'  you  come  forward 
and  shake  hands,  and  say  very  quietly " 

"Like  a  mouse?" 

"Perhaps  a  little  louder  than  a  mouse " 

"A  frog?" 

"Oh,  well,  just  in  your  natural  voice — 'How  do  you 
do,  Miss  Mumps  ?'  " 

"Mother!" 

"Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"Why  do  people  say  'How  do  you  do?'  when  you 
aren't  doing  anything?" 

"Why,  because — well,  that's  a  fine  question  to  ask 
daddy  when  he  comes  home.  Now  we  must  get  on." 
Mrs.  Burton  held  up  a  warning  hand.  "Miss  Mumps 
is  coming  in " 

"She's  got  on  a  green  dress." 

Mrs.  Burton  jumped  up  in  a  fright. 

"A  pretend-green  dress,"  said  Bobby,  his  imagina- 
tion working. 

Recovering  some  of  her  wits,  Mrs.  Burton  took  a 
few  steps  forward  and  shook  hands  with  vacancy,  say- 
ing, "Miss  Mumps!  How  kind  of  you  to  call  on  such 
a  dreadful  day!" 

"Go  on,  kiss  her!"  cried  Bobby. 

"Be  quiet!    And  you've  forgotten  to  get  up." 

"I'm  up  now."  Of  his  own  accord  he  came  for- 
ward. "How  do  you  do,  Miss  Mumps.  How  kind 
of  you " 

"No,  no!     You  don't  say  that.    You  wait  until  she 

asks  you  how  you  are,  and  then  you  say What  do 

you  say?" 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  Miss  Mumps." 

"Splendid!" 


98  KIDDIES 

"It's  quite  easy,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"Now  you  may  go  back  to  your  seat." 

He  went  back. 

Said  Mrs.  Burton,  resuming  her  place  at  the  table: 
"Miss  Mumps  is  supposed  to  be  sitting  in  the  big  easy- 
chair " 

"I  see  her!"  He  smiled  in  the  direction  of  the  chair 
mentioned.  "She's  awful  fat!" 

"Oh,  hush ! — and  Jane  has  brought  in  the  tea." 

Bobby  turned  again  to  the  big  easy-chair.  "Miss 
Mumps — do  you  know? — Jane  got  new  teeth  yes- 
ter " 

"You  must  not  say  such  things.  Besides,  you  ought 
not  to  speak  until  you  are  spoken  to.  Always  remem- 
ber that.  ...  I  don't  think  I  shall  ask  you  to  hand 
Miss  Mumps  her  tea,  but  you  may  take  her  this  plate 
of  bread-and-butter." 

Bobby  came  over  for  the  plate.  "I  don't  think  she's 
bread-and-butter  hungry,"  he  remarked,  "but  I'll  have 
a  shot " 

"Be  careful!"  cried  Mrs.  Burton,  as  the  plate  tilted 
dangerously.  "Oh,  gracious!" 

"All  right,  mother,"  he  said  reassuringly,  as  he 
picked  a  couple  of  slices  from  the  carpet ;  "  'twasn't  the 
buttery  side." 

"Bring  them  to  me,  and  do  try  to  be  more  neat  and 
careful." 

"She  won't  have  any,"  said  Bobby,  after  shoving  the 
plate  where  a  real  visitor's  face  would  have  been.  "She 
says  she  wants  a  cake." 

"Well,  you  may  offer  her  a  cake,  but  please  try  to 
do  it  nicely.  Say,  'Miss  Mumps,  will  you  have  a 
cake?'  and  give  her  time  to  choose  one.  Take  this 
dish."  There  were  two  dishes,  for  she  had  expected 
a  number  of  callers. 

With  a  great  deal  more  care  than  he  had  vouch- 


THE  LIMIT  99 

safed  to  the  bread-and-butter,  Bobby  bore  the  dish  to 
its  destination. 

"Will  you  have  a  cake,  Miss  Mumps?"  he  inquired, 
with  politeness  that  momentarily  delighted  his  mother. 
In  a  whisper  he  added:  "Any  one  'cept  the  pink  one, 
"cause  I've  bagged  it." 

"What  do  you  say,  Bobby?" 

"Wasn't  speaking  to  you." 

"What  were  you  saying  about  a  pink  one?" 

"Just  said  I  had  bagged  it,"  he  repeated,  rather 
crestfallen. 

"Oh,  dear!  But  you  must  never  say  such  a  thing 
to  a  visitor." 

"But  what  if  she  grabs  my  pink  cake  the  way  Aunt 
Jessica  once  did  ?" 

"Well,  dear,  you  can't  help  it  if  she  does.  Besides, 
I  promised  you  a  pink  cake  only  if  you  were  very  good. 
Bring  the  dish  and  lay  it  carefully  on  the  table,  and 
then  go  back  to  your  seat." 

When  he  had  done  these  things,  she  said  pleasantly: 
"Please  ring  the  bell,  Bobby." 

"What  for?" 

"Really,  you  are  trying!  We  are  going  to  have  tea 
now." 

"Real  tea?" 

"Of  course." 

He  went  over  and  pressed  the  button. 

"Don't  keep  ringing  like  that,  or  Jane  will  be  giv- 
ing— at  least,  she'll  be  cross.  Sit  down." 

At  the  end  of  a  minute  he  remarked : 

"This  is  rather  stale.  I  thought  it  would  have  been 
more  fun." 

Mrs.  Burton  had  thought,  at  any  rate,  that  it  would 
have  been  more  interesting,  but  somehow  she  had  lost 
the  thread  of  the  lesson,  and  many  of  its  details  seemed 
to  have  faded  from  her  memory. 


ioo  KIDDIES 

"One  of  the  things  you  must  learn,"  she  said  lamely, 
"is  to  sit  still.  You  see,  I'm  supposed  to  be  talking  to 
Miss  Mumps." 

"Say  something  to  her,  then,"  said  Bobby,  with  re- 
viving interest,  "and  I'll  sit  as  still  as  anything.  Go 
on,  mother!" 

"Very  well ;  only  you  must  not  interrupt." 

"May  I  laugh?" 

"There  won't  be  anything  to  laugh  at."  Fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  big  easy-chair,  Mrs.  Burton  moistened  her 
lips,  and  in  a  high-pitched  elocutionary  voice  said: 
"Isn't  this  dreadful  weather  we  are  having,  Miss 
Mumps?" 

And  just  as  the  words  were  leaving  her  mouth  the 
real  Jane  opened  the  door  to  admit  a  real  visitor. 

What  Jane  thought  can  only  be  surmised  from  the 
badly-stifled  cackle  which  escaped  her,  as  she  closed  the 
door  upon  herself,  without  having  announced  the  visi- 
tor's name.  As  for  the  visitor,  she  cast  a  suspicious 
glance  around  her,  doubtless  in  search  of  Miss 
Mumps. 

Mrs.  Burton  started  up,  but  her  confusion  was  such 
that  she  could  not  recollect  the  name  of  the  lady 
whom  she  had  met  frequently  at  a  fortnightly  sewing- 
meeting  in  aid  of  a  far-off  charity. 

Bobby,  retreating  backwards  and  open-mouthed  be- 
fore this  apparition  of  a  stern-looking,  very  tall,  attenu- 
ated person,  with  piercing  eyes  and  an  extremely  long 
nose,  was  providentially  led  to  his  own  seat,  into  which 
he  fell  heavily,  bumping  his  head  against  the  back  so 
that  the  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  though  no  sound  left 
his  lips. 

Then  Mrs.  Burton,  producing  a  most  inane  smile, 
shook  the  lady's  hand  with  absurd  cordiality,  and 
gushed :  "It  is  so  good  of  you  to  call  on  such  a  dreadful 


THE  LIMIT  101 

day — isn't  it?  Will  you  have  this  seat?  .  .  .  Bobby, 
come  and  shake  hands " 

"Wait  till  I  blow  my  nose,"  said  Bobby,  with  a 
tremolo  in  his  voice. 

Having  performed  the  operation  and  dried  his  eyes 
simultaneously,  he  rose  and  advanced  to  the  lady,  now 
seated  in  the  big  easy-chair. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Mumps?"  he  gravely  in- 
quired. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  lady  did  not  like  it. 

"Oh,  please  excuse  him,"  exclaimed  the  hostess,  who 
had  just  recollected  her  visitor's  name.  "He  doesn't 
mean  to  be  rude,  Mrs.  Birley.  You  see,  Bobby  and  I 
were  having  a  little  game " 

"A  lesson,  mother!" 

" — pretending  that  a  Miss  Mumps  had  called.  It 
— it  was  really  most  amusing." 

"Indeed!"  remarked  Mrs.  Birley  very  coldly,  and 
without  taking  the  slightest  notice  of  Bobby,  who  lin- 
gered in  front  of  her. 

"You  may  sit  down,  Bobby,"  said  his  mother. 

"But  she  hasn't  asked  how  I  do." 

"Sit   down,   dear." 

"But  you  said "  Realising  that  his  mother  was 

looking  unhappy,  he  went  back  to  his  chair.  A  mo- 
ment later  he  jumped  up,  ran  to  the  table,  caught  up 
the  plate  of  bread-and-butter,  carried  it  safely  across 
the  floor,  and  presented  it  to  the  visitor. 

"No,  no,  Bobby!  Not  yet,  dear,"  stammered  Mrs. 
Burton.  "Wait  till  the  tea  comes." 

Rather  dejectedly,  Bobby  replaced  the  dish  on  the 
table  and  went  back  to  his  seat.  He  had  done  his  best, 
and  had  failed  to  please.  A  smile  from  his  mother, 
however,  did  something  to  comfort  him. 

Mrs.  Birley,  who  had  merely  regarded  him  with  a 
sort  of  sour  curiosity,  proceeded  to  talk  at  great  length 


102  KIDDIES 

on  the  subject  of  a  recent  sale  of  work  at  which,  it 
seemed,  neither  sellers  nor  buyers  had  done  anything 
like  their  duty.  She  was  one  of  those  people  who, 
while  crazily  modern  in  some  respects,  cling  stub- 
bornly to  certain  antediluvian  conventions.  To  give 
a  single  instance.  She  had  gone  through  fifty  years  of 
life  with  the  assumption  that  all  boys  were  born  rude 
and  greedy,  and  all  girls  gentle  and  dainty.  But  as 
she  had  none  of  either,  she  may  be  excused. 

Jane  brought  in  tea,  looking  as  though  a  mere  touch 
would  cause  her  to  explode.  She  had  had  great  fun 
in  the  kitchen,  mimicking  her  mistress's  unnatural  voice 
and  declaiming  to  the  gas-stove:  "Isn't  this  dreadful 
weather  we  are  having,  Miss  Mumps?"  But  as  every 
one  in  the  drawing-room,  including  Bobby,  was  so  un- 
utterably solemn,  she  set  down  the  tray  steadily  enough 
and  escaped  without  a  snigger,  remarking  inwardly 
that  old  Slim  Jim  (meaning  Mrs.  Birley)  had  evi- 
dently brought  a  hump  with  her. 

For  the  ensuing  twenty  minutes  Bobby's  conduct 
may  be  recorded  in  the  words  of  the  schoolmasters  as 
"very  good,"  if  not  "excellent."  Mrs.  Birley,  entranced 
with  her  own  conversation,  took  that  time  to  consume 
a  small  piece  of  thin  bread-and-butter;  and  as  Bobby 
had  gobbled  up  his  allotted  quantity  in  about  ninety 
seconds,  he  had  a  dreary  period  of  waiting.  And 
then  she  took  another  piece  and  went  on  talking,  and 
the  pink  cake  seemed  as  far  away  as  ever. 

So  that  it  was  with  the  greatest  relief  that  he  re- 
ceived from  his  mother  a  signal  to  convey  cakes  to  the 
visitor,  and  with  the  utmost  alacrity  that  he  obeyed. 

"Will  you  have  a  cake,  Miss  M-m "  He  stopped 

barely  in  time. 

She  took  a  fearful  age  to  choose;  and,  remembering 
Aunt  Jessica,  he  became  nervous  regarding  the  pink 
cake.  At  last  he  could  endure  no  longer: 


THE  LIMIT  103 

"That  yellow  one's  awful  good,"  he  hoarsely  whis- 
pered. 

"Indeed!"  retorted  Mrs.  Birley,  who  would  have 
construed  any  childish  suggestion  into  an  impertinence. 

"So's  the  brown  one ;  it's  chocolate." 

"Indeed!"  repeated  Mrs.  Birley,  while  her  hostess 
writhed  in  silent  misery. 

At  last,  with  a  sort  of  pounce,  Mrs.  Birley  took  a — 
white  one. 

Bobby  was  never  nearer  saying  "Hooray!"  at  the 
wrong  moment.  With  proud  and  beaming  countenance 
he  marched  back  to  his  mother.  His  confidential,  ques- 
tioning smile  was  more  than  she  could  resist. 

"You  may,"  she  said  softly. 

Now  those  pink  cakes  have  a  curious  magical  quality. 
They  go  down  in  absolutely  no  time.  Just  when  you 
are  thinking  of  one,  "Oh,  how  delicious!" — it  has 
vanished. 

Bobby  wanted  the  second  pink  cake,  which  still  re- 
posed on  the  other  plate. 

Mrs.  Burton  shook  her  head.  "It  would  make  you 
ill,  dear,"  she  whispered. 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Birley,  whose  ears  were  as  sharp 
as  her  eyes,  said,  in  her  penetrating  voice:  "My  dear 
Mrs.  Burton,  permit  me  to  tell  you  that  you  are  en- 
tirely wrong.  The  cake  would  not  make  him  ill." 

Mrs.  Burton  looked  as  though  she  had  not  heard 
aright.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  feebly,  while 
Bobby  turned  quickly  towards  the  visitor.  Could  it 
be  that  she  was  not  so  rotten  after  all? 

"I  will  go  further,"  quacked  Mrs.  Birley,  "and  say 
that  all  the  cakes  on  the  dish — all  the  cakes  in  the 
shop  would  pot  make  him  ill." 

At  this  astounding  statment,  Mrs.  Burton's  pretty 
mouth  fairly  gaped;  her  son's  expanded  in  a  grin  of 


104  KIDDIES 

gratification.  Undoubtedly  the  queer  lady  knew  what 
she  was  talking  about. 

"But,"  continued  the  visitor,  "he  would  suffer — suf- 
fer punishment  for  his  greed."  She  pronounced  the 
word  "greed"  as  though  there  were  a  dozen  "e's"  in  it. 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Mrs.  Burton,  "I'm  afraid  I 
don't  understand." 

"I'm  not  greedy,"  said  Bobby,  stoutly. 

Mrs.  Birley  ignored  him,  as  usual. 

"The  cakes  are  innocent,  wholly  harmless.  One 
cannot  blame  the  cakes  because  one  eats  too  many. 
The  pain  is  simply  the  result  of  one's  folly  and  greed." 

"How  awful!"  Mrs.  Burton  helplessly  murmured, 
avoiding  the  other's  terrible  eye.  "I  never  thought  of 
that.  But  do  you  really  think  that  one  more  cake 
would  make  Bobby  greedy — I  mean  to  say,  if  Bobby 
were  greedy,  would  one  more  cake — or,  rather,  would 
it  be  greedy  if  one  more  Bobby — oh,  you  know  what 
I  mean,  Mrs.  Birley." 

"Perfectly.  But  only  his  conscience  can  inform  him 
as  to  whether  it  would  be  greedy  or  not."  The  speaker 
complacently  finished  her  tea. 

There  was  a  dismal  pause,  and  then  Bobby  addressed 
Mrs.  Birley: 

"Do  you  often  have  pains?" 

"Oh,  hush,  Bobby!"  wailed  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Birley 's  stare  would  have — and  had — discon- 
certed many  a  child,  but  in  Bobby's  case  it  proved  a 
failure. 

"In  your  turn?"  he  supplemented  without  shrink- 
ing. 

"Bobby!" 

Mrs.  Birley  was  so  taken  aback  that  before  she  knew 
it  she  had  indignantly  ejaculated,  "Certainly  not!" 
She  was  about  to  add  that  he  was  the  rudest  boy  in 
her  experience,  when  he  said: 


THE  LIMIT  105 

"Not  even  long  ago — when  you  was  a  little  girl?" 

"Bobby,  leave  the  room  at  once!"  cried  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton, almost  in  tears. 

"I'm  just  going,"  he  said,  keeping  his  gaze  on  Mrs. 
Birley.  "Never?" 

She  lost  her  head.  "No,  never !"  she  snapped.  "And 
I  must  say " 

"Then  you  must  have  had  a  rotten  time!"  said 
Bobby,  with  lofty  pity.  Then  realising,  perhaps,  that 
he  had  made  a  mess  of  things,  and  with  an  appealing 
glance  at  his  mother,  he  ran  from  the  room. 

The  apologising  of  a  mother  is  a  sorry  affair,  and  it 
shall  not  be  described  here.  Enough  to  say  that  in  the 
end  Mrs.  Birley  was  persuaded  to  accept  another  cup 
of  tea  and  another  cake,  while  Mrs.  Burton  recklessly 
promised  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  for  the  next  sale 
of  work. 

When  Mrs.  Burton  went  up  to  the  play-room  she 
found  her  son  seated  in  a  corner  with  a  book  of  comi- 
cal beasts  on  his  knees,  and  with  reddened  eyelids. 

"Oh,  Bobby,  how  could  you  disgrace  me  so?"  she 
cried. 

"I  c-couldn't  help  it.     It  was  her  fault,  too." 

Mrs.  Burton  sighed,  possibly  in  agreement.  "I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  forgive  you,"  she 
said  presently. 

"Neither  do  I."  He  blinked,  and  two  fresh  tears 
appeared.  "Unless  you  do  it  the  same  way  as  1-last 
time." 

It  would  appear  that  she  got  over  the  difficulty  some- 
how, for  at  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes — which  is  quite 
a  long  time  to  a  little  boy — he  made  a  hesitating  inquiry 
respecting  pink  cake  No.  2. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  replied,  almost  guiltily,  "I'm  dread- 
fully sorry — though  I  ought  not  to  be — but  Mrs.  Bir- 
ley ate  it.  ...  But  be  a  man,  Bobby!" 


io6  KIDDIES 

After  a  moment  or  two  he  said  bravely:  "Yes,  I 
will  be  a  man,  mother.  And  I'll  just  say  what  daddy 
would  say." 

"What's  that,  dearie?" 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "Well,  I  guess  this  is  the 
limit!" 


IX 
THE  GHOST 


MACGREGOR  ran  up  the  first  flight  of  steps,  walked 
up  the  second,  and  ascended  the  third  and  last  with 
lagging  feet.  While  he  greatly  desired  an  interview 
with  Willie  Thomson,  who  had  failed  to  keep  an 
appointment — the  usual  Saturday  afternoon  appoint- 
ment— he  shrank  from  an  interview  with  Willie's 
aunt  and  sole  guardian,  and  that  not  altogether 
without  reason.  Still,  he  was  the  sort  of  boy  who 
does  not  easily  unmake  his  mind.  Arrived  on  the 
landing,  he  halted  opposite  the  door  of  his  chum's 
abode  and  gave  a  peculiar  whistle.  At  intervals  he 
repeated  it  with  increasing  shrillness,  but  without 
obtaining  the  slightest  response.  Strange!  Was  it 
possible  that  Willie  had  had  the  temerity,  or  "neck," 
as  Macgregor  would  have  expressed  it,  to  go  off  on 
some  ploy  of  his  owTn?  The  bare  thought  angered 
as  well  as  hurt  Macgregor. 

With  sudden  resolve  he  advanced  to  the  door  and 
tapped  lightly.  His  mother  had  taught  him  to  say 
"please"  even  in  cases  where  nothing  tangible  might 
be  forthcoming;  and  he  generally  remembered  to  say 
it  to  the  people  he  didn't  much  like. 

The  angular  and  wizened  spinster  who  opened  the 
door  regarded  him  with  patent  disapproval,  and  said 
acidly: 

"What  d'ye  want?" 

107 


io8  KIDDIES 

"Please— is   Wullie   in?" 

"Ay." 

Macgregor's  countenance  expressed  relief,  and  his 
voice  was  more  confident  as  he  inquired:  "Is  he 
comin'  oot  to  play?" 

"Na;  he's  no'  comin'  oot  to  play." 

"What  wey?" 

"Nane  o'  your  business." 

"But — but  he  promised,"  Macgregor  stammered, 
abashed.  "Will  he  be  oot  in  a  whiley?"  he  ven- 
tured. 

"He'll  no'  be  oot  the  day." 

"What  wey?     Is  he  seeck?" 

Miss  Thomson's  frown  deepened.  "He's  bein' 
punished,"  she  said  coldly. 

"What  wey?" 

"I'll  'what  wey'  ye,  if  ye  speir  ony  mair  ques- 
tions!" she  exclaimed.  "I  believe  it  was  you  got 
him  into  the  mischief  this  mornin'.  What  d'ye  mean 
by  teachin'  him  to  slide  doon  a  plank  an'  come  hame 
wi'  his  troosers  destroyed?  Tell  me  that!" 

"I  didna  teach  him.  I  didna  ken  there  was  a  nail 
in  the  plank." 

"Oh,  ye  didna  ken  there  was  a  nail  in  the  plank, 
did  ye  no'?  Oh,  indeed,  quite  so!"  cried  Miss 
Thomson  with  withering  sarcasm.  "An'  micht  I  tak' 
the  leeberty  of  speirin'  hoo  it  cam'  to  pass  that  yer 
ain  troosers  wasna  damaged?" 

"Maybe  mine's  is  better  cloth,"  said  Macgregor, 
meaning  no  offence.  And,  while  Miss  Thomson 
choked  with  indignation,  he  added  gently:  "Could 
ye  no'  keep  Wullie  in  the  morn  instead  o'  the  day?" 

"D'ye  no'  ken  the  morn's  the  Sawbath,  ye  bad 
boy?"' 

"Weel,  ye  cauld  mak'  him  gang  to  the  kirk  twicet. 
That  wud  punish  him." 


THE  GHOST  109 

"Awa'   hame   wi'   ye,    ye   impiddent   wee    rascal!" 

she  cried  angrily.     "If  I  was  yer  mither "     She 

ceased  with  a  gasp  and  a  wild  unavailing  clutch,  as 
her  nephew,  who  had  stolen  up  behind  her,  pushed 
her  aside,  darted  forth,  and  clattered  down  the  stair, 
yelling  on  Macgregor  to  follow.  So  astonished  was 
the  latter  that  he  barely  escaped  seizure. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  fled  along  several  blocks 
and  turned  the  corner  that  the  pair  paused,  panting. 

"I  doobt  ye've  done  for  yerseF  noo,"  Macgregor 
remarked  sympathetically. 

"I'm  no'  heedin',"  Willie  declared.  "I  wasna 
gaun  to  bide  in  the  hoose  a'  day,  because  I  had  to 
wear  ma  Sunday  breeks." 

"She's  got  an  awfu'  bad  temper." 

"Ye're  richt  there!  She's  a  crabbit  auld  thing. 
Ye're  lucky  to  ha'e  yer  paw  an'  maw — an'  to  get  a 
Seturday  penny  every  Seturday.  Ha'e  ye  got  yer 
penny  on  ye?" 

"Ay,"  was  the  reply  given  a  little  reluctantly. 
"But — but  I'm  savin'  up."  Many,  many  a  Satur- 
day had  passed  since  Macgregor  first  made  this 
statement. 

"Ye  could  begin  next  Seturday,"  said  Willie 
pleasantly.  "If  ye  was  buyin'  gundy,  it  wud  keep 
me  f rae  gettin'  hungry  for  ma  tea,  an'  then  I  wudna 
need  to  gang  hame  until  she  had  got  her  monkey 
doon  again.  D'ye  see?" 

Macgregor  saw.  "Come  on  then,  Wullie,"  he  said 
resignedly,  and,  taking  his  friend's  arm,  went  briskly 
to  the  "gundy"  shop. 

"A'  the  same,"  he  remarked  later,  as  he  divided 
his  purchase  in  the  seclusion  of  a  dusky  entry,  off  a 
quiet  street,  "Yer  aunt's  a  bad  yin." 

"She's  a'  that.    I  wisht  I  could  punish  her!" 


i  io  KIDDIES 

Macgregor  gave  a  sage  wag  of  the  head.  "It's  no' 
easy  to  punish  big  folk.  Ye  aye  get  the  worst  o'  it 
in  the  end.  Mony's  the  time  I  wud  ha'e  liket  fine  to 
punish  ma  Aunt  Purdie " 

"She's  no'  near  as  bad  as  ma  aunt." 

"She's  no'  far  aff  it.  Did  ever  ye  try  to  punish  yer 
aunt,  Wullie?" 

"I  yinst  pit  an  egg  in  her  bed." 

"An"  what  happened?" 

"It  didna  burst,  an'  I  got  a  skelpin1." 

"Hard  cheese!"  Macgregor  commented.  "Ony- 
thing  else?" 

"I  yinst  lockit  her  into  the  hoose."  Willie  paused 
and  sighed. 

"Weel?" 

"She  boltit  the  door  on  the  inside,  and  she  didna 
let  me  in  for  ma  dinner  nor  ma  tea,  either.  An'  she 
made  ham  an"  eggs  for  hersel'.  I  smelt  them." 

"Ay,  it's  no'  easy  to  get  the  best  o1  the  auld  yins. 
Ye  aye  get  back  twicet  as  much  as  ye  gi'e." 

"Ah,  but  I  ken  noo  hoo  to  punish  her.  I've  got  a 
rare  plan,"  said  Willie,  with  sudden  hopefulness  of 
look  and  tone. 

"What's  the  plan?"  his  friend  inquired,  sceptically. 

"Gi'e  her  an  awfu'  fricht!" 

"Hoo  are  ye  gaun  to  manage  that?" 

"Wi'  a  ghost." 

"A  what?" 

"A  ghost!     She's  terrified  for  ghosts!" 

"Ach,  there's  nae  sich  things  as  ghosts." 

"Wha  said  that?" 

"Ma  paw.     An'  I  say  it,  tae." 

"Weel,  ye  needna  say  it  to  ma  aunt.  She's  terrible 
fond  o'  readin'  stories  aboot  ghosts  afore  she  gangs 
to  her  bed,  an'  then  she  has  awfu'  bad  dreams.  She 
read  yin  the  ither  nicht — I've  got  the  paper  at  hame — 


THE  GHOST  in 

an'  aboot  three  in  the  mornin'  she  commenced  screech- 
in'  like  fun." 

"Maybe  she  was  feelin'  badly  in  her  inside." 

"Na ;  she  groans  saftlike  when  she's  that  way.  When 
I  yelled  to  her  to  ask  what  was  up,  she  cried:  'Oh, 
dinna  let  it  catch  me!'  " 

"An'  what  next?"  inquired  Macgregor,  now  keenly 
interested. 

"Oh,  she  waukened  up  then,  an'  gi'ed  me  a  lectur' 
for  waukenin'  her." 

"Was  ye  no'  feart  yersel',  Wullie?" 

"Me?  No'  likely,"  replied  Willie,  rather  too  em- 
phatically. 

"I  believe  ye  was.  Did  she  tell  ye  what  the  ghost 
was  like?" 

"Na;  but  the  paper  tell't  me." 

"What  did  the  paper  say?" 

"I'll  no'  tell  ye  if  ye  say  I  was  feart." 

"Weel,  maybe  ye  wasna.    What  was  it  like?" 

Willie  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  The  place  where- 
in they  stood  was  now  almost  dark  in  the  December 
twilight. 

"Come  ootside,  an'  I'll  tell  ye,"  he  said,  and  led  the 
way  to  a  street  lamp. 

"Was  it  a  skeletin?" 

"Na,  na.  It  was  a  leddy.  I  forget  her  name,  but 
she  was  gentry  richt  enough.  She  was  aboot  a  thoosan' 
year  auld,  an'  she  had  been  a  terrible  bad  yin  in  her 
time.  She  cast  oot  wi'  her  young  man  an'  stabbed 
him  wi'  a  dagger  in  his  vittles.  And  then  she  stabbed 
hersel'  in  her  ain  vittles,  but  she  couldna  really  kill 
hersel' " 

"What  wey?" 

"I  couldna  say — but  that  was  the  story.  An'  every 
year,  aboot  the  New  Year  time,  she  gangs  aboot  greet- 
in',  an'  flourishin'  her  dagger,  an'  askin'  folk  to  tak' 


ii2  KIDDIES 

it  an'  kindly  stab  her  again  so  as  to  kill  her  proper. 
But  she  canna  get  onybody  to  dae  the  job." 

"I  believe  ye!  Ye  wud  sune  get  the  nick  if  ye  done 
that.  But  what  was  she  like,  Wullie?" 

"Oh,  she  was  fearsome !  There  was  a  pictur'  o'  her." 
Willie  hesitated. 

"Hurry  up!" 

"She  was  dressed  in  a  lang  white  goon,  wi'  a  big 
hole  in  it  whaur  she  had  stabbed  hersel' ;  an'  she  had 
lang,  skinny  fingers;  an'  her  grey  hair  was  a'  toosie 
an'  hingin'  doon  ower  her  face;  an'  her  eyes  was  like 
burnin'  coals  o'  fire,  an'  her  tears  was  rinnin'  doon  like 
b'ilin'  gravy " 

"What?" 

"I  canna  mind  the  words,  but  that's  what  they 
meant,  something  awfu'  hot.  An'  she  made  a  wailin' 
soun',  an'  whiles  she  gnashed  her  teeth.  That's  a'  I 
mind." 

"My!"  exclaimed  Macgregor,  "she  was  a  corker — 
eh?"  A  pause.  "But  it's  no' a  true  story." 

Willie  looked  up  at  the  friendly  lamp.  After  a  few 
moments  had  gone  he  slowly  said:  "She  thinks  it's  true, 
onywey."  Then,  abruptly,  "Will  you  be  the  ghost?" 

His  companion  was  taken  aback.  "To  frichten  yer 
aunt?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Whisht!     Folk'll  hear  ye!— To  punish  her." 

"What  wey  can  ye  no'  be  the  ghost  yersel'?" 

"She  wudna  be  sae  angry  wi'  you  as  she  wud  be  wi' 
me,  if  she  discovered  it." 

"Jings!  ye've  a  neck  on  ye!  Ye  can  punish  yer  ain 
aunt,  Wullie." 

"But  it  wud  be  fine  fun  for  you,  Macgreegor,  dress- 
in'  up  for  the  ghost.  Eh?': 

Macgregor  opened  his  mouth,  but  the  objection  died 
at  his  lips.  His  mind  wavered.  He  was  caught  on 


THE  GHOST  113 

the  weak  spot  of  all  normal  youngsters.  The  idea  of 
"dressing  up"  was  too  tempting. 

"I  wudna  be  a  ghost  like  the  yin  in  the  paper,"  he 
said,  after  a  little  reflection. 

"Ye  can  be  ony  kin'  o'  ghost  ye  like." 

"I'll  black  ma  face " 

"Ah,  but  I  never  heard  o'  a  ghost  wi'  a  black  face. 
Ye  see,  it  wudna  dae  to  be  comic-like." 

"I'll  no'  be  that,  I  warrant  ye!  When  dae  ye  want 
to  gi'e  her  the  fricht?" 

"Monday." 

"That's  Christmas  Eve.  It  wudna  be  fair  to  dae  it 
then.  Mak'  it  Wen'sday.  I'll  be  ready." 

"But  what  are  ye  gaun  to  dae?"  demanded  Willie, 
not  a  little  annoyed  at  seeing  his  scheme  so  completely 
annexed. 

"Wait  an'  ye'll  see,"  replied  his  friend,  who  had  not 
the  slightest  notion  of  what  he  was  going  to  do.  "Hoo 
am  I  to  get  into  the  hoose  on  Wen'sday?" 

"I'll  no'  let  ye  into  the  hoose  on  Wen'sday  unless 
ye  tell  us  what  ye're  gaun  to  dae." 

"I'll  tell  ye  the  morn,"  Macgregor  compromised. 
"Ye  see,  I'll  ha'e  to  think  aboot  it." 

"But  I  want  to  gi'e  ye — advice,"  said  Willie. 

"Weel,  you  can  be  thinkin'  aboot  yer  advice  till  the 
morn.  Come  on  for  a  walk.  I'm  gettin'  cauld.  Hoo 
am  I  to  get  into  the  hoose?" 

His  resentment  evaporating,  Willie  allowed  himself 
to  be  conducted  into  the  brightness  of  the  main  street. 

"She  gangs  oot  to  the  shops,"  he  explained,  "every 
evenin'  aboot  hauf-past  five,  an'  comes  back  at  six. 
Ye  maun  be  watchin',  an'  whenever  ye  see  her  gang 
oot  ye  maun  rin  up  the  stair,  an'  I'll  be  waitin'  to  let 
ye  in.  We'll  ha'e  everything  ready  for  the  dressin' 
up.  Then  ye  maun  hide  in  the  coal  bunker — it's  aye 


j  14  KIDDIES 

near  empty  on  Wen'sdays — an'  when  I  hear  her  comin' 
I'll  pit  oot  the  gas.  The  fire'll  be  enough  to  let  her 
see  ye." 

"But  what  aboot  yersel'  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  pretend  I'm  terrified  an*  scoot  frae  the 
hoose,  an'  you'll  dae  the  same — efter  ye've  gi'ed  her  the 
fricht.  Ye  see?" 

"I  see,"  Macgregor  slowly  answered,  and  just  then 
a  clock  boomed  six.  "I  maun  gang  hame  to  ma  tea," 
he  said. 

"Ye'llbeoot  later  on?" 

Macgregor  shook  his  head.  "No'  the  nicht.  Paw 
an'  me's  gaun  to  ha'e  a  battle  at  the  draughts." 

"I  wisht  I  was  you,"  sighed  Willie.  "I  daurna  gang 
hame  afore  nine,  an'  I'm  gey  hungry." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Macgregor  said :  "Come 
on  up  wi'  me,  Wullie,  an'  I'll  get  ma  maw  to  gi'e  ye  yer 
tea.  But  mind  ye" — impressively,  almost  sternly — 
"ye're  no'  to  bide  a  single  meenute  efter  ye've  had  it! 
Will  ye  mind  that?" 

With  a  relieved  expression  Willie  faced  his  friend 
and  silently  and  solemnly  drew  the  edge  of  his  hand 
across  his  throat. 

"Paw,"  said  Macgregor,  soon  after  his  father  had 
permitted  him  to  win  the  last  of  several  games  of 
draughts,  "d'ye  ken  any  ghost  stories?" 

"Ghost  stories!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Robinson,  amused. 
"Here,  Lizzie! — Macgreegor's  wantin'  ghost  stories!" 

"Aweel,"  replied  Mrs.  Robinson,  intent  on  her  sew- 
ing, "he'll  jist  ha'e  to  want  them." 

"Yer  fayther's  the  boy  for  tellin'  ghost  stories, 
Lizzie,"  John  remarked  pleasantly.  "I  wonder  if  I 
couldna  mind  yin  o'  his." 

"Na,  na,  John!" 

"If  Gran'paw  Purdie  tells  ghost  stories,"  Macgregor 


THE  GHOST  115 

observed,  "they  canna  be  bad  for  weans — an'  I'm  no' 
a  wean,  onywey." 

"There  ye  are,  Lizzie!"  said  Mr.  Robinson,  with 
a  laugh.  "What  dae  ye  say  to  the  story  aboot  the 
yellow-faced  ghost  that  had  horns  like  a " 

"Ay,  paw,  tell  it!" 

"John,  if  ye  commence  to  tell  that  story,  Macgreegor 
gangs  stracht  to  his  bed." 

"What  wey,  maw?" 

"Jist  because." 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  ere  John  said: 

"But,  Lizzie,  Macgreegor  kens  fine  there's  nae  sich 
thing  as  a  real  ghost.  Dae  ye  no',  Macgreegor?" 

"Dod,  ay!" 

"Macgreegor,  ye're  no'  to  say  that  word!"  Mrs. 
Robinson  said,  with  a  severe  glance  at  both  husband 
and  son. 

"Weel,  I  ken  there's  nae  sich  thing  as " 

"It's  easy  sayin'  that  when  ye're  sittin'  at  a  cosy 
fire,  wi'  the  gas  full  on.  It's  anither  story  in  the  mid- 
dle o'  the  dark  nicht." 

"Dod,  that's  truth,"  admitted  John  regretfully. 
"I'll  ha'e  to  think  oot  a  story  aboot  a  nice,  kind,  plees- 
ant,  comic  kin*  o'  ghost." 

"It  wudna  be  a  ghost  if  it  was  comic,"  said  the  boy. 

"I  believe  ye're  richt,"  his  father  agreed,  all  at  once 
dejected. 

"Wha  was  pittin'  ghosts  into  yer  heid,  Macgree- 
gor?" Lizzie  inquired.  "Was't  Wullie  Thomson?" 

Macgregor  blushed,  but  contrived  to  answer  careless- 
ly: "Och,  ay;  Wullie  tell't  me  a  story  he  had  read, 
but  I  didna  believe  it." 

"What  was  it  aboot?" 

"It  was — it  was  jist  aboot  an  auld  wife  that  gaed 
aboot  wi'  a  dagger.  She  had  whuskers  on  her  face, 


u6  KIDDIES 

an'   she   was  aye   greetin',   an'   her   tears  was   b'ilin' 
gravy " 

John  guffawed.  "The  ghost  o'  a  sheep's  heid,"  he 
began. 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Lizzie.  "I'm  sure  Miss 
Thomson  wud  be  unco  vexed  if  she  kent  Wullie  was 
readin'  sic  trash.  She's  that  parteec'lar." 

It  was  on  Macgregor's  tongue  to  enlighten  his 
parents  on  that  point,  but  he  suppressed  the  words  just 
in  time. 

"B'ilin'  gravy,"  said  John,  "is  the  best  yet !  Dod,  it's 
you  for  the  comic,  Macgreegor !" 

The  gratification  of  having  so  thoroughly  entertained 
his  father  went  far  to  assuage  Macgregor's  disappoint- 
ment. He  accepted  the  invitation  to  a  final  game,  also 
the  offer  of  a  "daud  o'  taiblet";  and  to  Lizzie's  relief 
the  subject  of  ghosts  was  apparently  forgotten.  But 
even  his  father  could  not  help  him  to  win  the  game. 

The  consultation  arranged  with  his  fellow-plotter 
for  the  following  day  did  not  come  off,  for  Willie  was 
taken  to  church  no  less  than  thrice  and  was  kept  in 
durance  with  a  copy  of  the  "Shorter  Catechism" 
throughout  the  intervals. 

On  the  Monday  afternoon,  however,  they  met,  and 
the  meeting  at  first  might  have  been  described  as  an 
indignation  one.  When  it  had  cooled  down  a  little, 
Macgregor  produced  from  under  his  jacket  one  of 
those  old-fashioned  round  woolly  mats  which,  along 
with  a  case  of  waxen  fruits,  or  other  "ornament,"  used 
to  adorn  the  centre  of  many  a  parlour  table.  The  hair 
was  long  and  emerald  green,  a  trifle  faded  in  colour. 

"I  got  it  in  a  drawer,"  he  explained,  "but  I'll  ha'e 
to  pit  it  back  when  I'm  feenished  wi'  it." 

"What's  it  for?" 

"For  ma  heid.  It'll  look  gey  fearsome  if  I  black 
ma  face " 


THE  GHOST  117 

"I  never  heard  o'  a  black  ghost " 

"The  de'il's  black,  ye  gowk!" 

"Gor!"  cried  Willie,  recoiling,  "are  ye  for  pretendin' 
ye're  the  de'il?  Has  he  got  green  hair?" 

"I  dinna  say  I  was  gaun  to  be  him"  Macgregor  said 
impatiently;  "but  maybe  she'll  think  she's  come  for." 

Willie  brightened.  "That'll  be  a  fine  punishment 
for  her!  Are  ye  gaun  to  ha'e  a  dagger?" 

The  answer  to  this  query  was  delivered  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "We've  a  great  big  toastin'-fork  in  the  hoose. 
I'll  ha'e  that." 

"My!" 

"An*  I'll  black  ma  ban's  an'  face — a'  except  ma 
nose.  An'  I've  got  a  squeaker  thing  oot  o'  wee  Jean- 
nie's  cahootchy  sheep  to  pit  in  ma  mooth — it'll  mak' 
her  jump!  But  you'll  ha'e  to  get  me  claes.  I  wish  we 
had  a  big  black  hairy  rug  like  Aunt  Purdie  has " 

"We've  got  yin !  There's  a  lot  of  hair  wan  tin'. 
She  bocht  it  at  a  jungle  sale." 

"It'll  dae  fine,  Wullie.  I  jist  wish  I  hadna  spent 
ma  penny  on  Seterday." 

"What  wey?" 

"I  could  ha'e  bocht  a  firework  to  set  off  when  I 
was  jumpin'  frae  the  coal  bunker." 

"Aw,  ye'll  manage  fine  wantin'  the  firework,  Mac- 
greegor,"  said  Willie,  who  was  becoming  slightly  un- 
easy at  the  elaborateness  of  his  friend's  scheme. 

"It's  a  peety  I  spent  it,"  repeated  Macgregor  mourn- 
fully. "If  it  wasna  for  the  squeaker  I  could  mak' 
smoke  come  oot  o'  ma  mooth!" 

"She  wud  smell  the  tobacca." 

"I  wudna  dae  it  wi'  tobacca.  I  wud  roll  up  ashes 
in_a  bit  paper,  like  a  ceegarette,  an'  blow  through.  It 
wud  look  like  smoke  in  the  dark." 

"Aw,   I  think  the  squeaker's  best  onywey.     We'U 


u8  KIDDIES 

need  a  heap  o'  string  to  tie  on  the  rug,  eh?"  Willie 
remarked,  becoming  practical. 

"Ay,  we  best  gang  roun'  the  grocers  noo  an'  ask 
for  the  len'  o'  some." 

Which  they  did. 

II 

Miss  Thomson,  clad  in  her  respectable  but  rusty 
outdoor  garments,  gave  a  final  tidying  touch  to  the 
hearth  and  set  the  kettle  in  that  position  which,  long 
experience  had  informed  her,  would  allow  of  its  all 
but  reaching  "the  boil"  by  her  return.  She  put  up 
her  hand  to  lower  the  gas,  hesitated  and  looked  at 
her  nephew  who,  seated  in  the  arm-chair,  was  appar- 
ently lost  in  one  of  his  school-books.  Unusual  sight! 
And  in  his  Christmas  holidays  too ! 

"Are  ye  no'  gaun  oot  afore  tea,  Wullie?" 

He  shook  his  head  without  raising  his  eyes,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  devoted  student  impatient  at  being 
disturbed. 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  woman  regarded  him. 
Her  harsh  features  seemed  to  soften  a  little.  Was  it 
possible,  she  wondered,  that  her  scapegrace  nephew 
had  benefited  by  the  three  sermons  of  Sunday?  Cer- 
tainly he  had  been  strangely  subdued  during  the  last 
three  days.  Could  it  be  that  this  unwonted  studious- 
ness  was  intended  to  please  her?  She  said  nothing, 
however,  and,  with  a  final  glance  at  the  fire,  went  out. 

At  the  closing  of  the  door  Willie  got  up,  leaving 
his  book  on  the  chair,  and  proceeded  to  extract  sundry 
pieces  of  string  from  his  pockets,  which  he  laid  in 
readiness  on  the  table  already  set  for  a  frugal  meal. 
No  grin  appeared  on  his  face,  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
his  sobriety  was  due  to  dread  rather  than  to  conscience. 
He  made  a  hurried  visit  to  the  other  apartment  of  the 


THE  GHOST  119 

house,  and  returned  with  the  hairy  rug  already  men- 
tioned. And  then  the  expected  tap  reached  his  ears. 

The  arrival  of  the  second  conspirator  dispersed  the 
gloom,  and  fears  vanished  in  the  blaze  of  excitement. 
Macgregor  was  in  first-rate  spirits,  and  Willie  began 
to  envy  him  his  leading  part  in  the  business.  He  even 
went  so  far  as  to  suggest  that,  after  all,  it  might  be 
advisable  for  him  to  play  the  ghost,  especially  as  he 
had  some  past  acquaintance  with  the  coal  bunker;  but 
Macgregor  blithely  if  bluntly  told  him  to  go  and  chase 
himself;  and  being  the  weaker  character  he  was  fain 
to  submit  to  continue  with  a  good  grace  in  his  very 
secondary  role.  While  Macgregor  was  burning  a  cork, 
and  also  a  finger,  at  the  firebars,  he  amused  himself 
with  the  unusually  large  toasting-fork  and  the  squeaker 
until  commanded  to  put  down  the  latter. 

"If  ye  swallowed  it,"  Macgregor  remarked,  "ye  wud 
jist  spile  the  ghost.  Here's  anither  cork.  Ye  can  be 
gettin'  it  ready  on  the  fork.  I'm  gaun  to  dae  ma  face 
in  a  meenute." 

"Hoo  are  ye  gaun  to  clean  yer  face  efter  ye  win 
oot  the  hoose?"  Willie  suddenly  inquired.  "Ye  canna 
gang  through  the  streets  wi'  a  black  face." 

"I've  got  a  wat  clout  in  ma  pocket,  in  a  bit  o'  paper." 

"Mylye'refly!" 

Macgregor  smiled,  rather  cockily.  "Hoo  are  ye  gaun 
to  pit  back  the  black  rug  wi'oot  her  catchin'  ye?" 

"Oh,  ye'll  ha'e  to  keep  it  till  I  get  a  chance.  But 
maybe  ye  could  manage  the  ghost  wantin'  it.  It  wud 
be  safer  if  ye  could." 

"Did  ye  ever  see  a  ghost  in  or'nar'  claes?" 

Reluctantly  Willie  admitted  that  he  never  had. 
"But  ye'll  ha'e  to  tak'  extra  guid  care  o'  oor  fine  rug," 
he  said  admonishingly. 

Macgregor  was  now  at  the  little  mirror  at  the  side 


120  KIDDIES 

of  the  sink,  blowing  on  a  fuming  cork.     "D'ye  think 
I  should  leave  ma  nose  white?"  he  inquired. 

"Hoo  wud  it  dae,"  said  Willie,  with  an  effort  to  be 
original,  4<to  black  yer  nose  an'  leave  the  rest  o'  yer 
face  white?" 

"It  wudna  dae  ava'!  I  think  I'll  jist  dae  it  a'  black. 
It'll  save  time." 

"Weel,  ye  best  hurry  up.  She'll  be  back  in  twinty 
meenutes." 

"Richt  ye  are,  Wullie!"  And  Macgregor  applied 
himself  to  his  make-up. 

The  result  was  quite  satisfactory  to  himself. 

"It'll  no'  be  comic  when  the  gas  is  oot,"  he  said  in 
reply  to  his  friend's  criticism. 

And  later  on  Willie  was  disposed  to  agree  with  the 
prophecy,  for  the  completed  "ghost"  in  rehearsing  its 
emergence  from  the  bunker,  with  the  light  lowered, 
was  grotesque  enough  to  be  almost  fearsome. 

The  "dressing  up"  was  accomplished  with  few 
hitches  and  only  two  mishaps  of  any  consequence.  Mac- 
gregor ruined  his  white  collar  and,  owing  to  inad- 
vertence, the  hairy  rug  got  pretty  badly  singed,  which 
caused  the  air  to  reek  with  a  horrid  odour.  Happily, 
Willie  recollected  having  heard  that  "the  de'il"  gener- 
ally went  about  diffusing  a  smell  of  sulphur.  At  the 
same  time,  he  opened  the  window. 

The  clock  struck  six  as  Willie  nervously  assisted  his 
woolly  friend  into  the  bunker  for  the  last  time. 

"Ye'll  no'  forget  to  turn  oot  the  gas  when  ye  hear 
her  comin'?"  said  Macgregor,  who  was  perspiring 
freely. 

"I'm  no'  seeck  o'  life,"  Willie  retorted,  quoting  the 
reply,  overheard  at  a  street  corner,  of  a  young  woman 
to  her  swain's  invitation  to  partake  of  a  twopenny 
pie. 


THE  GHOST  121 

"An*  ye'll  be  sure  to  leave  the  door  open  when  ye 
dae  a  slope?" 

"Ay,"  said  Willie.  "An'  you'll  no'  forget  the  way 
to  get  oot  o"  the  bunker?  Push  the  lid  up  wi'  yer 
heid,  an'  then  shove  doon  the  front,  an' " 

"Ach,  I  ken  fine  hoo  to  get  oot.  Shut  me  in,  quick! 
But  mind  ye  dinna  fasten  the  hook!" 

"Nae  fears!  I'll  see  to  the  hook.  Keep  doon  yer 
heid!" 

Willie  proceeded  to  close  up  the  hinged  flap  and  to 
lower  the  lid.  The  hook  which  had  caused  the  inmate 
anxiety  hung  loosely  from  the  edge  of  the  latter  and 
would,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  drop  into  its 
"eye"  on  the  former.  Willie,  however,  carefully  placed 
it  with  the  back  of  its  curve  against  the  eye,  and  after 
giving  the  lid  a  thump  or  two  with  his  fist,  announced 
to  Macgregor  that  he  was  "as  safe  as  a  kirk." 

"The  coals  is  awfu'  dirty,"  the  ghost  remarked. 

"Doesna  matter  when  yer  face  is  black.  Mind  ye 
dinna  hurt  yersel'  on  the  shovel.  An'  dinna  mak'  ony 
noise,  for  I've  got  to  listen  for  her  comin'.  An'  Mac- 
greegor !" 

"mat,  Willie?" 

"If  she  catches  ye,  ye're  no'  to  say  I  pit  ye  up  to  it." 

"No'  likely!  We'll  jist  ha'e  to  pretend  it  was  a  joke. 
But  she'll  no'  catch  me.  Oh,  dear,  it's  terrible  warm 
in  here!" 

"Whisht!  I  think  I  hear  something!"  Willie  flew 
back  to  the  hearth,  ready  to  turn  out  the  gas. 

A  false  alarm.  At  the  end  of  a  minute  he  said 
softly : 

"Macgreegor,  hoo  are  ye  gettin'  on?" 

"Oh,  fine!  Listen,  an'  I'll  gi'e  ye  a  tune  on  ma 
squeaker.  Oh,  dash!  I've  drapped  it!  Here,  Wullie! 
Open  the  lid  a  meenute  till  I  see  whaur  it  is." 

"Can  ye  no'  tak"  better  care  o'  yer  squeaker?"  com- 


122  KIDDIES 

plained  Willie,  more  in  nervousness  than  annoyance. 
He  went  over,  and  lifted  the  lid.  "Hurry  up !  Ha'e 
ye  no'  got  it  yet?" 

"It  fell  among  the  coals.  I  couldna  help  it.  Ha'e 
ye  a  match?" 

"Sh!  She's  comin'!"  gasped  Willie,  and  letting  the 
lid  fall  with  a  bang,  rushed  back  to  the  hearth,  turned 
out  the  gas,  and  fell  into  the  arm-chair,  shuddering 
with  apprehension.  He  heard  the  sound  of  a  turning 
key,  then  the  opening  of  the  outer  door.  He  wished 
he  had  never  had  anything  to  do  with  ghosts.  And  he 
suddenly  decided  to  pretend  he  had  fallen  into  a  swoon. 
He  sank  back,  closed  his  eyes  and  opened  his  mouth. 

"Wullie,"  called  the  voice  of  his  aunt. 

Involuntarily  he  sat  bolt  upright,  amazed  at  the  un- 
wonted mildness  of  her  tone. 

"Wullie,  come  here,  I  want  ye."  Her  tone  was  still 
milder — almost  diffident. 

Evidently  she  was  waiting  at  the  outer  door,  which 
she  had  not  closed.  But  why? 

Willie  found  himself  unable  to  move.  A  scuffling 
sound,  ending  in  a  thump,  came  from  the  bunker,  and 
he  nearly  screamed.  Presently  he  heard  his  aunt  ap- 
proaching. He  did  not  move  when  she  opened  the 
door. 

"Mercy!  He's  gaun  oot,  efter  a',"  she  said — and 
sighed. 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  him  in  the  firelight. 

"What's  ado,  Wullie?  What  for  did  ye  pit  oot  the 
gas?  Was  ye  sleepin'?" 

"Ay." 

A  creak  came  from  the  bunker ;  but  her  hearing  was 
indifferent. 

"Areyeno'weel?" 

"I— I'm  fine." 

She  peered  at  his  averted  face. 


THE  GHOST  123 

"Wullie,"  she  said  slowly,  "was  ye  trying  for  to — 
to  save  the  gas?" 

He  wriggled  uneasily,  a  movement  of  modesty  it 
might  have  been,  and  she  accepted  it  as  such. 

"Ye're  a  guid  laddie,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  lay 
several  flimsily  covered  parcels  on  the  table.  "I'm  gled 
I  thocht  to  gi'e  ye  a  treat,"-  she  went  on,  somewhat 
haltingly.  "When  I  was  oot  I  gaed  into  the  baker's 
an'  bocht  three  mutton  pies  an'  three  Christmas  pies 
an'  three  cheesecakes.  An'  so  ye  best  rin  as  hard  as 
ye  can  an'  bring  yer  frien'  Macgreegor  Robi'son  here 
for  his  tea." 

She  went  over  to  the  hearth  and  from  the  mantel- 
shelf took  a  box  of  matches.  Yet  she  appeared  to  be 
in  no  hurry  to  light  the  gas. 

"Haste  ye,  Wullie,"  she  said  kindly,  yet  with  a  touch 
of  her  old  impatience. 

But  Willie  sat  still,  as  good  as  paralysed. 

"Dae  ye  no'  want  Macgreegor?"  she  inquired  pres- 
ently. 

"Naw,"  the  hapless  one  blurted. 

A  distinct  sound  came  from  the  bunker. 

"What  was  that?"  cried  Miss  Thomson,  peering 
across  the  room. 

"A — a  moose,  maybe." 

"A  moose?    There's  nae  mice  in  this  hoose." 

"Maybe  it  was  a  c-c-cat." 

"Hoo  could  a  cat  get  there?"  She  struck  a  match 
and  applied  it  to  the  gas,  and  blinked  at  the  bunker. 
"The  hook's  catched,"  she  said,  relieved.  "It  wud  jist 
be  a  bit  o'  coal  slippin'  doon."  Again  she  turned  her 
attention  to  her  nephew. 

"Mercy,  Wullie,  what  ails  ye?" 

"Naething." 

"If  ye're  no'  weel,  ye  canna  get  eatin'  the  pastries." 

"I'm  fine,"  muttered  Willie,  his  gaze  glued  to  the 


124  KIDDIES 

treacherous  hook.  And  yet  he  was  not  sorry  it  had 
caught. 

"An'  what  wey  dae  ye  no'  want  Macgreegor?" 

"He — he'll  maybe  no'  be  at  hame  the  nicht." 

"Gi'e  him  the  chance.  I  was  thinkin'  I  had  maybe 
been  rayther  severe  on  him  the  ither  day — espaycially 
seein'  it's  New  Year  time.  Rin  an'  see  if  ye  can  get 
him.  Tell  him  I've  got  pastries  for  him." 

It  was  here  that  Willie's  few  remaining  wits  de- 
parted. 

"Macgreegor  doesna  like  pastries,"  he  said. 

From  the  bunker  came  a  clatter,  a  rumble,  and  a 
voice,  choking  with  indignation : 

"Wullie  Thomson,  yer  a  leear!" 

Then  an  awful  silence. 

Miss  Thomson,  who  had  gone  pale,  was  the  first 
to  recover. 

"Wha's  in  the  bunker?"  she  sternly  demanded  of 
her  unhappy  nephew. 

"It's  jist  a — a  ghost,"  he  mumbled. 

"A  goat?    Hoo  daur  ye  tell  me  sic  a  falsehood?" 

"I  said  a  ghost.  It's  Macgreegor  Robi'son.  We 
only  done  it  for  f-fun." 

"Oh,  ye  only  done  it  for  fun,  did  ye?"  Miss 
Thomson's  voice  had  lost  all  its  recent  kindliness.  "An' 
ye  thocht  to  terrify  me,  did  ye  ?" 

Willie  was  about  to  reply  in  the  negative,  but  Mac- 
gregor  was  before  him. 

"Ay,  we  did,"  he  cried.  "But  I'm  gled  we  didna 
manage  it " 

"Oh,  ye're  gled  ye  didna  manage  it,  are  ye?  Ye'll 
be  stoppin'  there  for  the  nicht,  I  suppose — eh  ?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Weel,"  she  went  on,  "I'll  just  tak'  the  pastries  roun' 
wi'  me  to  Miss  Jordan,  an'  her  an'  me'll  enjoy  them. 
But  first  I'll  send  the  ghost  hame.  An'  as  for  you, 


THE  GHOST  125 

Wullie,  ye  wee  deceit,  ye'll  gang  stracht  to  yer  bed! 
Frichten  me,  wud  ye? — an'  me  that  nervous!" 

She  advanced  to  the  bunker,  undid  the  hook,  and 
lifted  the  lid. 

In  the  words  of  Hamlet,  alas,  poor  ghost!  Mac- 
gregor  looked  what  he  was — a  dismal  failure.  We  do 
not  always  realise  how  keenly  a  child  feels  the  collapse 
of  his  scheme,  nefarious  though  it  may  be.  His  eyes 
fell,  his  lip  quivered. 

"Ma  guid  rug!"  exclaimed  Miss  Thomson  in  awful 
tones. 

Yet  worse  was  in  store  for  the  poor  ghost.  Next 
moment  Miss  Thomson  stepped  back  to  the  nearest 
chair,  fell  into  it,  and  began  to  quake  in  an  extraordi- 
nary manner.  Presently  she  emitted  a  sound  so  strange 
to  Willie  that  the  tears  stopped  short  in  his  eyes. 

His  aunt,  whom  he  had  seldom  witnessed  smiling, 
was  actually  laughing. 

She  laughed  and  laughed,  with  frequent  exclama- 
tions of  "Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear!"  until  she  was  well-nigh 
exhausted,  while  the  object  of  her  mirth  writhed  and 
almost  wept  with  humiliation. 

But  the  laughter  stopped  as  abruptly  as  it  had 
started.  Still  breathless  she  said: 

"Macgreegor  Robi'son  come  oot  an'  clean  yersel', 
an'  we'll  ha'e  oor  tea.  Wullie,  pit  the  pies  in  the 
oven.  Ye  can  say  ye're  sorry — efter  ye've  had  yer 
pastries.  I  forgi'e  ye  baith,  though  ye  dinna  deserve 
it."  Then  she  went  off  again.  "A  ghost  wi'  green 
hair!  Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  I  ha'ena  laughed  like 
this  since  ma  sister  had  the  whoopin'-cough,  seeven- 
an'-thirty  year  back !  Oh,  dear !" 


X 

AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT 


ALL  the  little  girls  were  more  or  less  impressed  by  the 
announcement  made  by  Miss  White,  their  favourite 
teacher,  to  the  effect  that  she  would  not  be  with  them 
after  the  holidays,  because  (blushing)  she  was  going  to 
be  married ;  but  none  was  quite  so  impressed  as  Gladys. 

Gladys  would  have  preferred  to  walk  home  alone 
that  afternoon;  however,  Mabel  overtook  her  before 
she  had  gone  far  beyond  the  school  gate.  They  could 
not  have  been  called  close  friends,  but  their  homes 
happened  to  lie  in  the  same  direction.  Mabel  often 
said  things  that  hurt  and  shocked  Gladys.  She  was 
a  rather  sophisticated  young  person,  though  only  a  year 
older  than  Gladys,  who  was  eight.  Her  parents  were 
rich;  her  father  owned  several  motor-cars,  and  he  and 
her  mother  were  restless  people,  forever  touring  or 
visiting.  Mabel  was  not  much  more  familiar  with 
them  than  with  the  servants. 

"Why  did  you  blub  when  she  kissed  you?"  she  de- 
manded now,  with  startling  abruptness. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  stammered  Gladys.  She  might 
easily  have  answered  that  the  tears  had  come  because 
Miss  White  was  going  away  for  ever;  but  that  would 
not  have  been  the  whole  truth,  and  Gladys  was  still  a 
stranger  to  the  incomplete  sort.  She  really  did  not 
know  altogether  why  she  had  wept;  she  had  not  been 
awfully  miserable;  she  had,  in  fact,  experienced  an  ec- 
126 


AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT          127 

static  thrill  when  Miss  White  had  uttered  the  word 
"married." 

There  were  certain  hymn  tunes  that  produced  a 
somewhat  similar  effect  upon  Gladys — when  the  organ- 
ist played  the  melody  on  the  vox  angelica  and  the  light 
was  dull;  they  made  her  heart  feel  warm  and  big  and 
her  eyes  wet,  and  sometimes  her  throat  lumpy — though 
it  was  all  delicious. 

"You  oughtn't  to  blub  without  knowing  why,"  re- 
marked Mabel.  "I  never  do." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Gladys,  wishing  she  were 
home,  with  all  her  five  dolls  to  cuddle.  "It  must  be 
lovely,"  she  ventured,  "to  be  going  to  be  married." 

"I  don't  think,"  Mabel  returned  coldly.  "Besides, 
Miss  White  is  miles  too  old.  She  has  got  grey  hairs!" 

"She  hasn't!" 

"Heaps  of  them,  though  she  tries  to  mix  them  up 
with  the  others.  And  she  has  a  red  nose." 

"It's  only  the  least  little  tiny  bit  pink." 

"Well,  it'll  soon  be  red — red  like  a  tomato." 

"I  think  you're  simply  horrid,"  cried  Gladys  with  in- 
dignation. "If  it  was  extra  pink  to-day,  it  was  only 
because  she  was  blushing."  Defiantly:  "And  I'm 
fearfully  glad  she  is  going  to  be  married!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  her  getting  married,"  said  Mabel 
carelessly,  "but  I'm  jolly  glad  I'm  not  her."  After  a 
brief  pause:  "I  wouldn't  get  married  for  a  million 
pounds.  Catch  me  chasing  a  man  all  over  the  shop!" 

"Oh,  Mabel!"  Gladys  exclaimed,  her  resentment  giv- 
ing place  to  shocked  distress. 

"I  say,  Gladys,"  said  the  other  suddenly,  "let's  take 
a  noath." 

"A  what?" 

"A  noath.  You  are  stupid!  Let's  promise  each 
other  never  to  marry." 


ia8  KIDDIES 

"But  we  couldn't  marry  each  other,"  said  Gladys, 
not  without  relief  in  her  voice. 

"Goosey!  I  meant  marry  men,  of  course!  Let's 
take  a  solemn  noath.  I'll  begin  if  you  like." 

Gladys  shook  her  fair  head  gently  but  firmly.  "Oh, 
I  couldn't,"  she  softly  declared. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  am  going  to  be  married.  It's  to  be  on 
my  twenty-first  birthday." 

Mabel  laughed  sceptically.     "How  do  you  know?" 

"Mother  said  I  might.  At  first  I  thought  of  my 
sixteenth  birthday,  but  mother  said  that  was  too  soon, 
and,  besides,  I'm  perhaps  going  to  college  then." 

"But  how  do  you  know  you'll  get  any  one  to  marry 
you?" 

Gladys  was  neither  offended  nor  dismayed.  "I  just 
know." 

"Are  you  engaged?" 

"N-no.    But  I  shall  be." 

"When?" 

"Some  day." 

"I  expect  it  will  be  smother  evening,"  said  Mabel, 
quoting  the  last  housemaid  but  one. 

"I  think  it  will  be  in  the  evening,"  simply  replied 
Gladys,  who  quite  recently,  in  her  mother's  absence, 
had  read  the  final  chapter  of  an  old-fashioned  novel, 
and  had  thereby  gained  a  faint  inkling  of  a  betrothal 
by  moonlight. 

Mabel  was  so  taken  aback  by  the  calm  confidence 
that  she  overlooked  the  density  of  her  companion. 

"Who  are  you  going  to  get  engaged  to?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"I  think,"  said  Gladys  hopefully,  "it  will  be  Bobby 
Burton." 

"He's  not  well  off,"  remarked  Mabel,  and  seeing 


AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT          129 

that  her  words  failed  to  have  the  slightest  effect,  she 
added:  "Why  do  you  think  it  will  be  him?" 

"I  know  him  better  than  any  other  boy." 

"But  does  he  admire  you?" 

The  conversation  had  become  so  intimate  that 
Gladys,  with  all  her  innocence,  blushed.  But  she  an- 
swered the  question  bravely — though  modestly — "I 
think  he  does." 

"Why  do  you  think?" 

"Once,  when  I  was  much  younger,  he  told  his  mother 
that  he  liked  the  colour  of  my  hair,  and  she  told  mine ; 
and  just  before  last  Christmas  he  told  me  that  he  didn't 
like  skinny  legs — and  mine  aren't,  even  when  I've  got 
on  my  silk  stockings." 

"No,  your  legs  aren't  skinny,"  admitted  Mabel,  "but 
very  likely  you'll  have  a  long  illness,  and  then  they'll 
get  like  sticks " 

"I  won't  have  a  long  illness " 

"And  you'll  most  likely  be  bald  when  you  grow  up 
— before  you're  twenty — because  fair  hair  like  yours 
always  comes  out — nurse  says  so — in  handfuls — and  she 
says,  too,  that  men  always  know  when  you  wear  those 
wiggy  things — so  you  had  better  get  engaged  as  quickly 
as  you  can,  for  nobody  will  look  at  you  when  you  are 
grown  up."  And  Mabel  paused  in  breathless  triumph. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Gladys  almost  screeched.  "And 
I  wouldn't  have  your  black  hair  for  anything." 

"You'll  wish  you  had  it  some  day.  So  you  had  bet- 
ter ask  Bobby  Burton  as  soon  as  possible  to  be  engaged 
to  you,  and  then  perhaps  you'll  be  safe.  If  you  don't, 
you  will  die  an  old  maid!" 

Tears  were  rising  to  her  blue  eyes  when  it  occurred 
to  Gladys  that  she  had  caught  Mabel  tripping.  With 
recovered  confidence  she  said: 

"I  don't  believe  what  your  nurse  says,  and  I 
think  you're  a  silly,  Mabel,  because  ladies  never  ask 


130  KIDDIES 

gentlemen    to    be    engaged    to    them.      So    there!" 

"It  used  to  be  like  that,"  Mabel  coolly  rejoined;  "but 
nowadays  cook  says,  you  can't  possibly  catch  a  man 
unless  you  blooming  well  chase  him  into  a  corner.  I've 
heard  her  say  it  often,  and  she's  married  to  the  gardener 
— the  one  with  the  wooden  leg." 

"Well,"  said  Gladys  distractedly,  "I  think  she  was  a 
horrid  thing  to  chase  a  poor  man  with  a  wooden  leg." 

"He  seems  to  like  her  well  enough,  but  she  says 
marriage  is  a  frost."  With  an  abrupt  change  of  man- 
ner Mabel  pleasantly  added :  "Perhaps  you  would  like 
to  take  the  noath  now?" 

Gladys  could  struggle  no  longer.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  positively  hated.  The  emotion  was  too 
much  for  her.  With  an  inarticulate  cry  of  rage  and 
grief  she  fled  for  home,  which  was  fortunately  near,  as 
fast  as  her  plump  little  limbs  would  carry  her. 

Her  mother  chanced  to  be  out,  and  she  ran  straight 
to  her  play-room,  seized  her  five  dolls,  and  clasped  them 
to  her  bosom.  Gradually  they  gave  her  comfort  and 
resignation,  and  she  was  drying  her  eyes  on  the  dress 
of  the  shabbiest  one,  when  a  most  dreadful  thought 
struck  her. 

Must  her  five  beloved  children  be  for  ever  fatherless  ? 


II 

On  her  mother's  return  Gladys  lost  no  time  in  con- 
sulting her  on  the  subject  of  falling  hair.  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, naturally  annoyed  and  indignant,  only  partially 
reassured  her  little  girl,  at  the  same  time  advising  her 
not  to  speak  to  Mabel  again  if  she  could  possibly  avoid 
doing  so.  Gladys  had  prepared  other  questions,  but 
somehow  they  would  not  come  to  her  lips.  She  feared 
lest  her  mother  might  be  still  more  annoyed,  which 
shows  that  Mabel's  sting  had  left  a  tiny  drop  of  the 


poison  of  self-consciousness.  She  managed,  however,  to 
ask  a  little  later  if  she  might  invite  Bobby  to  tea  on  the 
following  evening. 

"Certainly,  dear.  Shall  I  write  a  note,  or  will  you 
run  round  in  the  morning?" 

"If  you  write  the  note,  mother,  I'll  take  it  round  in 
the  morning,"  Gladys  replied,  after  a  moment's  con- 
sideration. 

"Very  well;  but  you  must  make  it  clear  to  him  that 
it  isn't  a  party." 

"Yes,  mother.  Will  you  please  have  some  meringues 
— pink  ones?" 

Mrs.  Marshall  laughed.  "If  you  promise  not  to  tell 
Bobby  that  he  is  going  to  have  them.  You  don't  want 
him  coming  here  out  of  cupboard-love,  do  you?" 

Gladys  was  puzzled  as  to  what  might  be  meant  by 
cupboard-love,  but  she  had  an  aunt  who  sang  a  pretty 
song  about  "Love  in  a  Cottage,"  and  she  had  also  a 
cupboard  in  her  play-room,  and  she  thought  of  both  un- 
til she  became  rather  confused,  and  did  not  go  to  sleep 
that  night  so  quickly  as  usual. 

Now  Gladys,  for  nearly  a  year,  had  had  her  mind 
made  up  that  on  her  twenty-first  birthday  she  and 
Bobby  would  marry.  She  could  not  have  told  you  a 
reason  for  her  belief.  Certainly  Bobby  had  never  given 
her  one.  On  the  other  hand,  it  had  never  occurred  to 
her,  until  Mabel  intervened,  that  any  reason  was  neces- 
sary. She  was  not  a  very  imaginative  child,  but  she 
believed  in  fairies  and  fairy  tales,  and  she  found  the 
good  old  tag — "And  so  they  were  married  and  lived 
happily  ever  after" — entirely  satisfying. 

She  was  fond  of  Bobby,  but  at  times  she  was  fonder 
still  of  the  idea  of  marriage,  so  that,  after  all,  Bobby 
may  have  been  merely  a  means  to  an  end.  Yet  she  had 
associated  Bobby  with  marriage  for  so  long — a  year 
is  an  age  to  childhood — that  to  doubt  him  was  to  fore- 


132  KIDDIES 

see  herself  an  old  maid  (it  did  not  seem  the  least  in- 
congruous to  Gladys)  with  her  five  children  semi- 
orphans.  No  other  possible  husband  entered  into  the 
dismal  picture.  Wherefore  in  sheer  desperation,  she 
determined  to  follow,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  unpalat- 
able teaching  of  Mable.  She  would  ask  Bobby  very 
nicely  if  he  would  be  kind  enough  to  be  a  father  to  her 
children,  or  at  least  become  engaged  to  her;  but  on  no 
account  would  she  blooming  well  chase  him  into  a  cor- 
ner. It  was  at  this  point  that  she  fell  asleep — to  dream 
that  all  her  dolls  had  changed  heads  with  one  another, 
and  that  her  toy-cupboard  was  stuffed  full  with  pink 
meringues  that  groaned,  while  seven  little  girls  with  no 
hair  sang  loudly  to  an  old  man  whom  they  called 
"Mother,"  and  who  was  really  a  pussy-cat,  and  Miss 
White,  the  teacher,  pointed  out  mountains  on  the  wall- 
paper with  a  wooden  leg. 

She  awakened  in  the  morning  none  the  worse,  and, 
according  to  childhood's  blessed  nature,  did  not  re- 
member Bobby  until,  at  breakfast,  Mrs.  Marshall  men- 
tioned that  she  had  written  the  note.  Then  she  felt 
more  excited  than  worried,  though  no  less  determined. 

The  note  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Burton,  and  the 
writer  instructed  the  bearer  not  to  go  into  the  house  at 
such  an  early  hour,  unless  she  were  specially  bidden. 
Within  a  few  minutes,  however,  she  was  in  Bobby's 
play-room,  conducted  thither  by  Mrs.  Burton,  who  pro- 
ceeded to  read  the  note. 

"Hullo!"  was  Bobby's  greeting.  "Have  you  got 
your  Christmas  holidays?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  a  little  shyly. 

"So  have  I.     What  did  you  come  for?" 

"Don't  be  rude,  Bobby,"  murmured  Mrs.  Burton. 
"Gladys  has  brought  you  a  very  kind  invitation  to  tea 
for  to-night." 

Bobby  did  not  look  supremely  delighted. 


AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT  133 

"Is  it  a  party?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  replied  Gladys,  who  was  apt  to  become  formal 
when  not  quite  at  ease.  "Mother  said  I  was  to  make 
it  clear  to  you  that  it  wasn't  to  be  a  party.  Just  you 
and  me,"  she  concluded,  more  freely. 

"Bobby  will  be  charmed,"  began  Mrs.  Burton. 

"But  I  wanted  to  have  Leslie " 

"Hush!  I'll  write  a  note  for  you  to  take  back  to 
mother,  dear.  Would  you  like  to  stay  and  play  with 
Bobby  this  morning?" 

"Look  here,  mother!"  cried  Bobby. 

"Mother  said  I  was  to  go  back  at  once,"  Gladys  said 
regretfully,  with  a  look  at  Bobby  that  would  have 
melted  anything  human  but  the  heart  of  a  boy  of  eight. 

"Well,  well,  if  that  is  so,  I  must  not  try  to  keep 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

After  a  long  silence  Gladys,  seated  at  the  window, 
ventured  to  ask  Bobby,  who  was  working  busily  at  the 
table,  what  he  was  doing. 

"Making  a  sailing  boat  into  a  steamer." 

"How  clever  you  must  be!" 

"It's  pretty  difficult,"  he  admitted,  with  a  wag  of 
his  head.  "It'll  take  ages  to  do  it.  I'd  have  finished 
it  to-night  if  I  hadn't  been  going  to  your  house." 

"You  could  bring  it  with  you  to  our  house." 

"But  you  don't  care  for  boats,  Gladys,"  he  said, 
conquered  by  her  magnanimity. 

"I'm  sure  I  could  get  to  like  them.  May  I  look  at 
that  one — close?" 

"Rather!     But  please  don't  touch  anything." 

She  came  beside  him,  and  if  she  did  not  understand 
his  explanations  she  was  attentive  enough  to  satisfy 
his  conceit  in  his  handiwork.  At  the  same  time,  she 
was  hoping  he  would  ask  a  certain  question.  Uncon- 
sciously she  snuggled  against  him. 

"Don't  push !"  he  muttered.     But  a  minute  later  he 


134  KIDDIES 

did  ask  the  question.  "Are  there  to  be  meringues  for 
tea?" 

She  nodded  joyfully.     She  had  not  told  him ! 

"Pink  ones?"' 

Again  she  nodded,  and  gave  a  pleased  little  giggle. 

"Why  are  you  so  glad,"  he  inquired,  "when  you 
aren't  allowed  to  eat  meringues?" 

"I  like  you  to  have  them." 

"Well,  I  think  you're  jolly  decent — the  decentest  girl 
I  know,"  he  said  warmly. 

At  that  moment  Gladys  felt  so  fond  of  Bobby  that 
marriage  did  not  seem  so  vital.  And  yet,  if  she  had 
proposed  to  him  then,  he  would  probably  have  said 
"Yes"  right  away. 

Mrs.  Burton  returned  with  her  note,  and  Gladys  re- 
luctantly departed.  It  was  not  until  she  was  with  her 
dolls  that  marriage  became  once  more  the  important 
thing.  And  she  was  still  a  little  afraid  of  premature 
baldness. 


in 

Bobby's  behaviour  at  the  tea-table  would  doubtless 
have  gratified  his  mother,  who  liked  his  going  to  the 
home  of  Gladys,  if  only  for  the  lessons  in  good  manners 
set  by  that  dainty  little  maiden.  He  did  not  knock 
over  anything,  and  took  only  two  of  the  three  me- 
ringues, although  Mrs.  Marshall  offered  him  the  third. 
(Parents  have  an  amazing  disregard  for  the  interiors  of 
other  people's  children.)  Bobby  felt  pretty  virtuous  at 
his  refusal. 

When  they  retired  to  the  play-room,  Gladys  gra- 
ciously insisted  on  his  proceeding  with  his  marine  engi- 
neering, and  produced  for  his  assistance  sundry  tools 
which  she  had  borrowed,  without  permission,  from  her 
father'?  chest.  Fortunately  none  of  them  were  very 


AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT          135 

dangerous,  but  Bobby  had  never  handled  such  splendid 
tools  before. 

He  retold  her  that  she  was  the  decentest  girl  he 
knew,  which  once  more  had  the  curious  effect  of  caus- 
ing the  end  to  change  places  with  the  means.  Next 
moment  he  brought  about  a  fresh  reversal  by  inquiring 
what  she  was  going  to  do. 

"My  children !"  she  cried,  and  flew  to  them.  "They 
must  be  put  to  bed." 

Bobby  was  used  to  hearing  her  refer  to  the  dolls  as 
her  children,  and  it  was  long  since  he  had  hurt  her 
feelings  with  unkind  comments,  though  often  tempted 
to  make  them.  Becoming  absorbed  in  his  job,  he  for- 
got both  dolls  and  Gladys. 

She,  seated  primly  on  the  old  sofa,  prepared  her  be- 
loved ones  for  the  night.  But  her  mind  was  busier 
than  her  fingers,  and  now  and  then  she  cast  furtive 
glances  at  the  boy. 

All  at  once  she  gave  a  little  jump  and  a  gasp.  She 
realised  that  Bobby  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
with  his  back  against  the  cupboard.  A  gust  of  ideas  as- 
sailed her.  Two  questions  were  finally  evolved.  Did 
it  mean  that  she  could  gain  him  without  blooming  well 
chasing  him?  Could  this  be  cupboard-love? 

In  a  breath,  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come!  She 
was  afraid,  yet  nothing  would  have  deterred  her  then. 
Gathering  her  five  dolls,  dressed  and  undressed,  to  her 
breast,  she  rose,  wavering  a  little,  and  crossed  the  floor 
until  she  was  within  a  few  feet  of  Bobby.  There  she 
halted. 

"Bobby,"  she  said,  in  scarce  a  whisper. 

"What?"  he  returned  absently. 

"Bobby!" 

He  looked  up  rather  impatiently. 

"Bobby,  will  you  be  a  father  to  my  children?" 

He  stared. 


i36  KIDDIES 

"Bobby,"  she  faltered,  "I  mean  will  you  marry  me 
when  we're  grown  up?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  with  small  interest. 

"Well — shall  we  be  engaged  now?" 

"What  for?" 

"I — I  want  to  be  safe." 

Naturally  he  did  not  comprehend. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  engaged  to  me,  Bobby?" 
she  ventured,  after  a  pause. 

"What  would  be  the  use?" 

"D-don't  you  like  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  well  enough." 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  rather — nice?"  She  had 
meant  to  say  "pretty,"  but  something  made  her  substi- 
tute the  other  word. 

"I  think  you're  jolly  decent.     Only  you're  silly  too." 

"Silly !"  she  echoed,  in  a  sort  of  wail.     "How  ?" 

"Well,  you're  a  girl — but  you  can't  help  that.  I 
think  you're  silly  not  to  take  meringues  when  you  get 
the  chance." 

"But,  Bobby,  I'd  get  a  pain !"  she  exclaimed  reproach- 
fully. 

"That's  sillier." 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  stunned.  Then  she  went 
back  to  the  sofa,  deposited  the  dolls  thereon,  and  with- 
out a  word  left  the  room. 

Bobby  put  in  an  uncomfortable  couple  of  minutes, 
and  was  much  relieved  by  her  reappearance.  Her 
countenance  wore  a  look  of  grave  triumph. 

"I  say,  I  didn't  mean "  he  began. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  told  him,  "I've  eaten  it!" 

"What?" 

"The  meringue.  I  stole  it,  and  ate  it — every  crumb! 
Now  will  you  be  engaged?" 

"You  might  have  given  a  chap  a  bite." 

Her  face  fell;  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 


AN  EARLY  ENGAGEMENT  137 

"Oh,  Bobby,  you  are  cruel!"  she  sighed. 

At  that  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Please  don't  cry, 
Gladys.  I — I'll  do  anything  you  like." 

"Then  say  we're  engaged." 

"Oh,  all  right."     A  pause.     "Is  that  all  you  want?" 

"I  think,"  she  said,  already  demure,  "you  ought  to 
kiss  me  and  give  me  a  ring." 

"Haven't  got  a  ring." 

She  had  it  ready.  "I  got  it  out  of  a  cracker.  Put 
it  on  this  ringer." 

"Silly  kid!"  said  Bobby,  doing  as  he  was  told,  how- 
ever. "Is  that  all?" 

"You  haven't  kissed  me." 

"Don't  want  to." 

"But  you  must,  because  you've  said  we  were  en- 
gaged, and  engaged  people  always  do  it." 

"Oh,  bother!"  He  kissed  her  chin.  "You  smell  of 
meringue,  greedy!" 

She  was  far  too  happy  to  take  offence. 

"Now  come  and  kiss  all  the  children,"  she  said 
briskly,  taking  his  hand. 

"Not  likely!" 

"Bobby!" 

"Kiss  rotten  dolls  ?     Not  much !" 

"Bobby!  And  I  ate  a  meringue  to  please  you,  and 
I'll  be  so  ill!  Oh,  please!" 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  ill.  It's  horrid,"  he  said,  in 
more  sympathetic  tones.  "You  were  a  brick  to  eat 
it — only  I'd  have  eaten  it  for  you.  Well,  I'll  do  it — 
if  you  won't  tell  anybody." 

He  ran  over  to  the  sofa  and  hastily  saluted  the 
heads  of  the  five  in  turn. 

"You're  a  dear!"  exclaimed  Gladys. 

"Now  is  that  all?"  he  demanded  shortly,  looking 
ashamed  of  himself. 

"That's  all,"  she  answered  cheerfully.     "Now  you 


138  KIDDIES 

can  go  and  finish  your  boat,  and  I'll  finish  putting  our 
children  to  bed." 

"They're  not "  Bobby  hesitated,  then  shut  his 

lips  firmly,  and  strode  back  to  his  corner.  No  use  ar- 
guing with  her! 

And  Gladys  felt  safe,  also  proud  that  she  had  not 
blooming  well  chased  him. 

"Aren't  you  glad,  Maud,"  she  whispered  to  her 
eldest  child,  "I  didn't  take  a  noath?" 


XI 
DICKY  JOHNNY 


AFTER  but  little  delay  the  total  earthly  possessions  of 
Richard  Temple  and  Joanna,  his  wife — two  of  the  vic- 
tims of  the  Urania  disaster  on  the  Australian  Coast — 
had  been  found  to  consist  of  forty  thousand  shares  in 
the  Hero  Copper  Mining  Company,  and  a  little  boy 
called  Dicky  Johnny.  It  had  further  been  discovered, 
after  the  least  possible  additional  delay,  that  nobody 
wanted  to  buy  the  shares  at  any  price,  and  that  no  one 
seemed  desirous  of  taking  the  little  boy  as  a  gift. 

The  lawyer  in  charge,  an  old  friend  of  the  dead 
man's,  had  locked  the  unsaleable  scrip  in  his  safe  and 
had  written  a  letter  to  Mr.  Winston  Temple,  the  boy's 
oldest  uncle.  The  ultimate  result  of  that  letter  was 
the  present  gathering  of  the  boy's  uncles  and  aunts — 
they  did  not  make  a  large  company — in  Mr.  Winston 
Temple's  library,  a  somewhat  gloomy  storehouse  of 
learning. 

The  host  sat  at  his  writing-table,  his  left  hand  in 
his  trousers  pocket,  his  right  toying  with  a  spring  pa- 
per-clip. He  was  a  man  of  near  fifty,  big,  powerful, 
almost  handsome.  His  coldish  grey  eyes  surveyed  his 
relatives — a  brother,  two  sisters,  two  brothers-in-law 
and  a  sister-in-law,  also  a  cousin,  a  widower. 

"Well,"  he  said,  breaking  a  silence,  "has  no  one  any 
suggestions  to  offer?  Henry,  you  had  better  speak 
first." 

139 


140  KIDDIES 

Henry  Temple,  a  meagre  person  compared  with  the 
elder  brother,  moved  uneasily  on  his  chair,  cleared  his 
throat,  glanced  at  his  wife,  and  shook  his  head.  His 
wife  spoke.  She  was  a  fair,  slim  woman  with  a  cer- 
tain hard  beauty. 

"I  do  not  see  that  we  can  suggest  anything,  Win- 
ston," she  said.  "I  presume  you  wish  to  find  a  home 
for  the  poor  unfortunate  boy,  but  you  know  that 
Henry's  health " 

"Agatha,"  said  Winston,  "have  you  anything  to 
propose?" 

His  elder  sister  hesitated  and  looked  at  her  husband, 
John  Rogers. 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  he,  "the  boy  would 
be  quite  welcome  to  stay  with  us,  for  a  time ;  but  as 
you  are  aware,  Agatha  and  I  have  no  abiding  place  at 
present.  It  is  almost  certain  that  we  shall  have  to 
make  a  trip  to  Ceylon  before  many  weeks  have  passed. 
I  had  hoped  to  settle  at  home  for  good,  but  things  out 
there  are  not  moving  just  as  one  could  desire, 

and "  His  voice  trailed  off  through  a  mumble 

into  silence. 

"And  you,  Adela,  have  your  own  five  children," 
said  Winston.  "No  doubt  your  hands  are  full 
enough." 

"I  don't  see  why  the  poor  little  beggar  shouldn't 
come  to  us,"  said  Adela's  fat  and  cheerful  consort. 

Adela  frowned  at  him.  "I  shouldn't  mind  the  trou- 
ble a  bit,"  she  said  to  her  brother,  "but  the  boy  has 
been  brought  up  in  a  way  that  I  never  could  approve 
of,  and  even  for  poor,  dear  Richard's  sake,  I  do  not 
see  that  I  should  be  justified  in  letting  my  own  chil- 
dren run  serious  risks  of — of " 

"Quite  so,"  said  Winston  quietly,  allowing  the  pa- 
per-clip to  shut  with  a  snap.  "I  shall  take  the  boy  here 
until  I  can  send  him  to  school." 


DICKY  JOHNNY  141 

Several  of  the  company  nodded,  and  some  one  said, 
"That  is  very  good  of  you,  Winston."  Then  every- 
body sat  up  in  the  way  that  people  sit  up  in  church 
after  a  very  long  prayer.  The  matter  had  been  nicely 
settled,  and  their  consciences  could  take  a  nap.  And, 
after  all,  Winston  was  only  doing  his  duty  as  the  head 
of  the  connection. 

"How  old  is  the  boy?"  the  question  was  asked  softly, 
though  abruptly,  by  the  widower.  His  presence  had 
caused  some  wonderment  at  the  beginning  of  the  meet- 
ing, but  had  thereafter  been  ignored,  and  Winston  had 
not  thought  it  worth  while  explaining  that  his  cousin 
had  invited  himself  to  the  meeting. 

"Between  five  and  six,  I  believe,  Thomas,"  Winston 
replied. 

"Have  you  any  idea  of  what  he  is  like?"  The  cou- 
sin, a  dark,  sad-eyed  man  of  perhaps  forty,  glanced 
rather  shyly  round  the  company.  He  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  Temples  save  relationship. 

No  one  had  any  idea.  Richard  Temple  and  his  wife 
had  been  wanderers  and  had  broken  modern  conven- 
tions pretty  freely.  Moreover,  Richard  was  adjudged 
to  have  married  beneath  him ;  his  relatives  had  received 
his  choice  but  coldly  on  the  only  occasion  of  meeting 
her,  and  had  presumed  Richard  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
choice  because  he  had  not  brought  her  to  see  them  a 
second  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Richard  had  been 
ashamed  of  his  relations,  or,  at  all  events,  of  their 
manners. 

There  was  a  silence  until  the  cousin  inquired  when 
the  boy  was  expected  to  arrive. 

"The  steamer  is  due  to-morrow  about  noon,"  Win- 
ston replied.  "I  have  arranged  to  meet  it  and  thank 
those  people — I  forget  their  names — for  bringing  Rich- 
ard John  from  Australia.  I  have  already  written  to 


142  KIDDIES 

thank  those  who  took  care  of  him  there  after  the 
wreck." 

"Poor  little  chap!  He  must  have  had  an  awful 
time,"  murmured  Adela,  and  the  other  women  and  one 
of  the  men  made  sympathetic  sounds. 

"With  your  permission,"  said  the  widower,  "I  shall 
be  glad  to  give  the  boy  a  home  and  do  my  best  to  bring 
him  up." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  but  no  one  spoke;  even 
Winston  was  unprepared. 

"I  can  promise  for  him  only  the  plainest  of  living, 
but  I  will  endeavour  to  secure  his  health,  give  him  a 
decent  education,  and — some  happiness." 

Winston  laid  the  paper-clip  carefully  on  his  desk. 

"This  is  exceedingly  good  of  you,  Thomas,"  he  said, 
with  a  kindness  that  scarcely  covered  the  surprise  and 
relief  in  his  voice. 

Without  giving  time  for  further  remarks,  Thomas 
continued:  "But  if  you  accept  my  offer,  I  must  ask 
you  all  to  entrust  me  with  the  guardianship — the  sole 
guardianship — of  the  boy.  I — I  wish  him  to  be  just 
as  if  he  were  my  own.  Now  I  shall  go  into  the  next 
room,  and  you  can  let  me  know  when  you  have  come 
to  a  decision."  He  rose  and  passed  to  the  door.  There 
he  halted.  "You  quite  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "that  I  require  entire  charge  of  the  boy."  He 
bowed  slightly  and  went  out. 

They  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long  in  the  next 
room. 


II 

Seven  years  ago  Thomas  Nairn  had  succeeded, 
chiefly  for  his  wife's  sake,  in  becoming  a  fairly  prosper- 
ous man  of  business.  But  even  as  he  was  beginning  to 
realise  his  success,  his  wife  died  ere  their  child  was 


DICKY  JOHNNY  143 

born.  Energy  failed  as  at  the  snapping  of  a  live  wire ; 
ambition  collapsed  like  a  rent  balloon.  For  a  few 
years  longer  Thomas  continued  in  the  City,  buying 
and  selling  in  a  listless,  half-hearted  fashion,  unmoved, 
barely  interested  by  his  clerk's  reports  and  statements 
of  steadily  dwindling  profits ;  then,  lest  he  should  bring 
about  the  ruin  of  others  as  well  as  himself,  he  caused 
his  affairs  to  be  wound  up  and,  with  what  little  capital 
remained  to  him,  left  the  City,  neither  glad  nor  regret- 
ful. 

In  a  far  county,  near  the  drowsy  village  of  Alvarley 
that  he  had  known  slightly  in  his  boyhood,  he  estab- 
lished himself  in  a  little  cottage  possessed  of  a  large 
garden.  His  early  youth  had  been  lived  among  gar- 
dens; years  of  town  life  had  not  stifled  his  love  and 
knowledge  of  flowers;  throughout  all  his  struggling 
after  money  he  had  never  relinquished  the  hope  of  mak- 
ing for  his  wife,  and  for  his  children,  a  home  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  -garden  away  from  the  stir  and  stress 
of  modern  existence.  Then,  to  be  sure,  he  had  not 
thought  of  Alvarley;  had  he  thought  of  it  then,  he 
would  now  have  made  his  hermitage  elsewhere.  But 
Alvarley  contained  in  itself  no  poignant  memory  of  his 
beloved,  and  offered  such  peace  as  is  possible  for  those 
who  must  ever  find  memories  in  a  blue  sky,  a  perfume 
of  violets,  a  bird's  song. 

At  first  it  was  enough  that  he  should  behold  lovely 
things  responding  to  his  own  labour  and  that  of  the 
assistant  whom  he  employed.  But  as  time  went  on, 
as  he  perceived  how  excellent  was  the  soil,  how  suitable 
the  exposure  of  his  garden,  he  began  to  ask  himself  if 
he  might  not  go  farther  and  sell  flowers  as  well  as 
grow  them.  The  idea  gripped  him,  though  it  was  the 
desire  to  extend  his  operations  rather  than  the  wish 
to  make  money  that  prevented  his  shaking  it  off.  So 
when  the  first  winter  came  he  invested  a  portion  of  his 


144  KIDDIES 

capital  in  additional  ground  and  a  cluster  of  glass- 
houses. Perhaps  he  sank  too  much  money,  for  the 
three  summers  that  followed  resulted  in  losses  more 
serious  than  he  could  well  afford.  Yet  he  gradually 
secured  a  sure  market  for  his  wares,  and  the  present 
summer,  so  far  as  it  had  gone,  gave  promise  of  at  least 
a  tiny  balance  on  the  right  side. 

"I've  got  to  make  a  profit  now,  anyway,"  said 
Thomas  to  himself  as  he  filled  his  pipe  by  the  door  of 
the  cottage. 

It  was  near  eight  o'clock,  and  he  had  been  out  since 
five  that  fine  July  morning.  But  he  had  done  less 
supervision  and  work  than  usual.  In  one  of  the  glass- 
houses he  had  allowed  a  whole  hour  to  slip  by  without 
touching  the  job  he  had  intended  to  complete ;  and  then 
he  had  gone  to  the  sweet-pea  garden  to  give  the  man 
there  certain  instructions,  and  had  come  away  without 
delivering  any  instructions  whatsoever.  And  now  he 
suddenly  realised  that  he  was  filling  his  pipe  without 
any  intention  of  smoking  it.  He  returned  it  and  the 
pouch  to  his  pocket,  and,  moving  to  the  cottage  door, 
opened  it  cautiously. 

Presently  he  entered  the  little  hall  and  went  on  tip- 
toe to  the  kitchen.  In  answer  to  his  whispered  in- 
quiry, Mary,  his  housekeeper,  who  had  known  him 
from  boyhood,  shook  her  head.  He  turned,  but  hesi- 
tated at  the  door. 

"Won't  ye  go  up,  sir?"  she  said.  "He's  maybe  stir- 
rin'  now,  though  he  was  sound  ten  minutes  back." 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  wake  him,"  said  Thomas; 
"he  must  be  very  tired  after  the  long  journey  yester- 
day." Nevertheless,  he  bent  down  and  unlaced  his 
heavy  boots  and,  having  removed  them,  went  softly 
up  the  narrow  stairs.  On  the  landing  there  were  two 
doors.  That  on  the  left  was  ajar,  and,  after  peeping 
in,  he  pushed  it  open  ana1  entered, 


DICKY  JOHNNY  145 

"Good  morning,  Dicky,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a 
deal  of  diffidence  in  his  voice,  although  he  and  the  per- 
son addressed  had  become  good  friends  the  previous 
afternoon. 

"I  hope  you  have  slept  well,"  he  went  on.  "I — I 
hope  I  didn't  disturb  you." 

The  little  boy  in  the  big  bed  sat  up;  his  bewildered 
stare  became  a  smile  of  welcome. 

"I  forgot  you  was  Mr.  Thomas,"  he  said;  "I  mean 
Uncle  Tom."  He  put  his  hand  in  the  man's  and 
lifted  his  face. 

Rather  bashfully,  Thomas  kissed  the  rosy  cheek  and 
said,  "Are  you  hungry?  Would  you  like  to  get  up 
now?" 

"It's  a  nicer  bed  than  on  the  steamer,"  the  boy  re- 
plied, looking  reflective;  "but  I'm  awful  hungry,  too." 

"Would  you  like  to  eat  something  before  you  get 
up,  Dick?"' 

The  boy  nodded.  "But  you  promised  to  call  me 
Dicky  Johnny  if  I  called  you  Uncle  Tom." 

"So  I  did.     What  would  you  like  to  eat?" 

"Something  very  nice." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  spoil  your  proper  breakfast," 
said  Thomas,  touching  the  tousled  yellow  hair.  "I 
believe  Mary  has  picked  some  strawberries.  How 
would  that  do,  Dicky  Johnny?" 

"Oh,  jolly!     With  sugar  and  cream?" 

"Certainly."  Thomas  went  to  the  stairhead  and 
called  some  instructions  to  his  housekeeper  in  a  some- 
what apologetic  tone  of  voice.  Only  the  day  before 
he  had  arranged  with  her  that  the  young  guest's  food 
should  be  wholesome,  but  as  plain  as  possible.  "And 
we  must  begin  with  plain  things,"  he  had  said,  "so  that 
the  boy  won't  expect  anything  else."  But  now  Mary 
chuckled  as  she  abstracted  the  cream-jug  from  the 


146  KIDDIES 

breakfast-table,  and  it  was  with  a  sort  of  triumphant 
air  that  she  bore  the  tray  to  the  bedside. 

Dicky  Johnny  insisted  on  giving  her  a  kiss,  and  she 
retired  in  more  subdued  fashion  than  she  had  come,  for 
she  knew  his  story.  Yet  for  the  present  the  boy's  blue 
eyes  were  clear  and  his  red  lips  smiling.  The  long 
voyage  with  its  incidents  and  kindly  people  had  been 
the  most  merciful  thing  possible  after  his  bereavement, 
and  Thomas,  who  had  dreaded  meeting  a  poor  little, 
grief-worn  creature  at  the  landing-stage,  had  been  un- 
speakably relieved,  only,  however,  to  be  assailed  by  mis- 
givings as  to  his  ability  to  make  the  immediate  future 
entertaining  enough  for  the  child.  For  that  the  grief 
was  only  dormant  Thomas  could  not  doubt;  a  single 
hour  had  been  long  enough  for  him  to  discover  the  in- 
tensely affectionate  nature  under  the  boyish  exterior, 
and  until  Dicky  Johnny  was  sound  asleep  he  had  feared 
for  a  breakdown. 

The  boy,  listening  to  a  description  of  the  flower- 
nursery,  made  short  work  of  his  feast,  and  announced 
his  desire  to  get  up. 

"Can  you  put  on  your  clothes  by  yourself?"  asked 
Thomas. 

"Of  course!     All  but  some." 

"I'll  tell  Mary  to  come  up  and  help  you." 

"No,  no,"  said  Dicky  Johnny.     "You." 

Thomas  felt  pleased.  "And  what  about  your  bath? 
Shall  I " 

The  boy  slipped  out  of  bed.  "Come  on!  I'll  not 
splash  you,  Uncle  Tom." 

"You  had  better  not!"  said  Thomas  almost  gaily, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  pretty  litle  bathroom  which  he 
had  added  to  the  cottage. 

It  was  a  merry  five  minutes  that  followed.  But 
when  the  small  body  was  wrapped  in  the  big  towel, 


DICKY  JOHNNY  147 

preparatory  to  being  dried,  something  seemed  to  clutch 
painfully  at  the  man's  heart. 

"Don't  squeeze  me  so  hard,"  protested  Dicky 
Johnny. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Thomas  awkwardly. 
"You  see  I — I'm  not  used  to  bathing  little  boys,"  he 
went  on  with  an  effort,  "though  I'm  very  glad  to 
learn." 

"Are  you?  I  don't  think  you'll  take  very  long  to 
learn,  Uncle  Tom." 

"Thank  you.  Are  you  sure  you  wouldn't  rather 
have  Mary?" 

"No,  no,"  replied  Dicky  Johnny,  throwing  moist 
arms  round  the  other's  neck.  "You." 

"I — I  think  I've  always  wanted  to  bathe  a  little 
boy,"  said  Thomas,  with  an  unsteady  smile,  "and  I'm 
very  glad  you're  going  to  stay  with  me,  Dicky 
Johnny." 

"So  am  I.  I'm  glad  I'm  not  going  to  stay  with  my 
other  uncle — the  real  uncle — that  came  to  meet  me  at 
the  steamer." 

"I  shouldn't  say  that  if  I  were  you.  Your  Uncle 
Winston  could  give  you  far  nicer  things  than  I  can. 
You  don't  know  him,  or  you  might  prefer  him  to  me." 

Dicky  Johnny  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  I 
could  love  him  very  dearly,"  he  said  gravely.  "Now 
I'm  dry." 

They  went  back  to  the  bedroom  and  had  great  fun. 
Thomas's  mistakes — partly  intentional — with  regard  to 
the  donning  of  the  small  garments  tickled  the  boy, 
whose  laughter  set  the  woman  downstairs  chuckling 
and  murmuring,  " 'Tis  a  different  house  already!" 
And  Thomas,  behaving  in  a  perfectly  distracted  fash- 
ion, added  absurdity  to  absurdity,  till  the  little  chap 
fairly  reeled  with  amusement.  But  at  last  everything 
was  put  on  the  right  way,  and  they  went  downstairs, 


i48  KIDDIES 

the  boy  riding  pick-a-back  (his  own  suggestion)  to 
breakfast. 

After  a  cheerful  meal  Thomas  proposed  a  visit  to 
the  flowers. 

"Have  you  got  any  water-tanks  in  the  glass-houses?" 
his  guest  inquired.  "And  water-hoses?" 

"I  have.     You  shall  see  them  also." 

"Shall  I  get  playing  with  them?" 

"I  dare  say  that  can  be  arranged,"  said  Thomas, 
who  a  couple  of  hours  earlier  had  definitely  made  up 
his  mind  not  to  allow  any  "messing  about"  with  water. 
"I  am  going  to  give  you  a  little  garden  of  your  own, 
too,"  he  added. 

"But  I  want  to  help  you,  Uncle  Tom." 

"I've  no  doubt  you  will,  my  boy,"  said  Thomas 
gently.  "We'll  help  each  other,  eh?" 

Dicky  Johnny  nodded.  "Right  you  are!"  he  said 
brightly. 

They  passed  into  the  sunny  garden,  the  small  hand 
in  the  big  one. 

"Which  flowers  do  you  like  best?"  the  boy  inquired. 

"Do  you  know,  I  never  can  be  quite  sure;  I'm  fond 
of  so  many.  Which  do  you  like  best,  Dicky  Johnny?" 

Dicky  Johnny  surveyed  the  part  of  the  garden  visible 
from  where  they  stood.  "Come,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
show  you."  He  led  his  host  to  a  great  bed  of  pansies. 

"Ah,"  said  Thomas,  "sometimes  I  think  they  are 
my  favourites,  too!  Take  a  few  if  you  would  like 
them."  He  had  intended  warning  his  guest  against 
plucking  any  flower  without  permission. 

"I'll  just  take  one."  After  some  deliberation  the 
boy  made  his  choice.  He  brought  the  flower  to  his 
host.  "Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  a  pansy  has  three 
small  faces  in  it?" 

"I  believe  I've  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  Thomas  re- 
turned, smiling.  "Yes;  I  can  see  them." 


DICKY  JOHNNY  149 

"Well,  it's  just  a  small  family.  There's  the  mother, 
and  there's  the  daddy,  and  there's  the  little  one.  And 

they're  always  together,  and "  The  pansy  fell  to 

the  ground. 

Thomas  saw  the  change  come  upon  the  young  face ; 
he  saw  it  quiver  as  though  actually  smitten ;  he  saw  it 
whiten  with  memory  and  redden  with  grief.  And  ere 
the  cry  of  desolation  burst  forth  he  was  on  his  knees 
beside  the  child.  But  Dicky  Johnny  refused  the  kindly 
arms,  tore  himself  from  them,  and  cast  himself  upon 
the  earth.  Oh,  agony  in  a  garden !  Oh,  bleak  sorrow 
under  a  brilliant  sun!  Oh,  man  and  child,  alike  help- 
less— helpless  as  flowers  before  a  tempest! 

Thomas  Nairn,  his  heart  seeming  to  break,  almost 
as  it  had  broken  seven  years  before,  knelt  by  the  small 
heaving  body,  a  light  hand  upon  it.  Perhaps  words 
would  have  been  useless  then.  Even  so,  Thomas  had 
none  to  utter. 

Not  very  long  as  clock-ticks  would  have  recorded  it, 
but  age-long  as  heart-beats  told  it,  was  this  storm  of 
childish  grief;  and  it  left  the  boy  exhausted.  He  of- 
fered no  resistance  when  Thomas,  himself  white  and 
shaken,  took  him  in  his  arms  and  bore  him  to  the  cot- 
tage and  to  his  own  (Thomas's)  bed.  The  sobs  had 
died  to  gasping  breaths  when  Thomas,  having  drawn 
the  green  blinds,  seated  himself  by  the  bedside  and  ten- 
derly sponged  the  tear-stained  face.  That  finished,  he 
began  to  talk  softly,  soothingly,  of  ±he  things  they 
would  do  and  see  in  Alvarley ;  of  the  picnics  they  would 
go,  of  the  little  creatures  of  wood  and  moor  and  stream, 
also  of  an  occasional  trip  to  the  neighbouring  town  and 
its  shops.  He  did  not  cease  until  he  deemed  his  charge 
asleep. 

But  Dicky  Johnny  was  still  awake.  He  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  touch  the  man's. 

"Are  you  lonesome  too?"  he  whispered. 


150  KIDDIES 

Thomas  drew  in  his  breath.  Then  he  bowed  till 
his  black  head,  streaked  with  grey,  lay  on  the  pillow 
beside  the  fair  one,  and  put  his  arm  round  the  lithe 
body. 

"Not  so  lonesome  as  I  was,  dear  little  man ;  not  so 
lonesome,"  he  murmured. 

A  short  pause,  and  then  the  faint  question.  "It  is 
'cause  of  me,  Uncle  Tom?" 

"Because  of  you,  Dicky  Johnny.  It's  just  as  if  I 
had  been  wanting  you  always." 

"I'm  glad  it's  'cause  of  me.  This  is  a  nicer  bed 
than  mine." 

"D'you  think  so?"  Thomas  tried  to  blow  his  nose 
and  wipe  his  eyes  at  the  same  time. 

"Yes.  Don't  you  like  having  a  little  boy  to  sleep 
with  you?  I  don't  kick — much,  Uncle  Tom." 

"You  don't  care  about  sleeping  alone?" 

"Not  when  I'm  lonesome." 

"Ah!  but  you  and  I  are  not  going  to  be  lonesome 
any  more.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm 
going  to  get  you  a  new  little  bed  for  yourself,  and  I'll 
put  it  beside  this  one,  so  that  you  can  climb  into  this 
one  whenever  you  like.  Will  that  do?" 

Dicky  Johnny's  arms  went  round  his  neck. 

"I  think  I  love  you  very  dearly,"  he  said. 

A  little  later  he  fell  asleep,  for  he  had  not  got  over 
the  excitements  and  journeyings  of  the  previous  day. 

Thomas  left  him  in  Mary's  care  and  went  out  to 
seek  his  foreman.  Having  found  him,  he  took  him 
over  to  the  pansy  bed. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  to  have  them  all  re- 
moved at  once.  Do  what  you  like  with  them,  but 
there  must  be  no  pansies  in  the  nursery  this  season." 

The  man  stared  at  him.  "Ye  don't  mean "  he 

began. 

"By  two  o'clock,"  said  Thomas,  and  hurried  away 


DICKY  JOHNNY  151 

to  look  out  a  new  length  of  hose  for  Dicky  Johnny's 
delectation  in  the  afternoon. 


m 

But  Thomas,  with  all  his  big,  soft  heart,  was  not  a 
fool;  nor  was  Dicky  Johnny,  with  all  his  affectionate 
nature  and  winsome  ways,  anything  but  an  ordinary 
human  boy,  prone  to  mischief  and  capable  of  rebellion. 
The  twain  had  loved  at  first  sight,  so  to  speak,  but 
they  had  still  to  get  to  know  and  understand  each 
other.  Not  vague  but  very  definite  were  the  responsi- 
bilities which  the  man  had  put  upon  his  conscience;  he 
had  taken  charge  of  the  child,  body,  mind,  and  soul ;  he 
had  set  himself  the  task  of  guiding  and  protecting 
Dicky  Johnny  for  many  years  to  come,  and  of  provid- 
ing, in  some  measure,  for  his  future.  And  it  was  the 
least  he  could  do,  he  told  himself,  in  return  for  the  gift 
of  the  boy,  whose  coming  had  uplifted  his  whole  being, 
whose  presence  made  his  house  a  home  and  his  garden 
a  nursery  indeed.  It  was  not  possible  that  Dicky 
Johnny  should  be  uninfluenced  by  the  intense  love  and 
unwavering  care  surrounding  him;  though  perhaps 
their  effect  was  less  visible  in  a  decrease  of  misdeeds 
than  in  the  penitence,  often  passionate,  which  surely 
followed.  Happily,  the  easy  indulgence  of  his  lost 
parents  had  not  rendered  him  either  greedy  or  selfish, 
and  he  was  quick  to  perceive  another's  hurt.  The  not 
infrequent  clashinga  of  will  between  Thomas  and  him- 
self involved  no  ugly  wounds. 

The  summer  was  a  bright  and  busy  one  for  both. 
By  labouring  early  and  late  Thomas  contrived  to  de- 
vote himself  to  Dicky  Johnny's  health  and  happiness 
without  neglecting  other  interests.  Moreover,  he  came 
out  of  his  hermitage  and  made  friends  with  the  doctor 
and  minister  so  that  the  boy  might  make  friends  with 


152  KIDDIES 

their  children,  and  ere  long  he  surprised  the  villagers, 
and  himself,  by  undertaking,  single-handed,  the  charge 
and  entertainment  of  half  a  dozen  boisterous  young- 
sters at  picnics  and  other  outings.  As  for  Mary,  the 
housekeeper,  she  hugged  her  bulky  self  and  chuckled 
because  of  the  light  that  had  come  into  the  life  of  the 
man  whom  she  had  served  from  boyhood,  and  praised 
God  because  Dicky  Johnny  graciously  allowed  her  to 
take  her  master's  place  at  the  bath  once  a  week. 

Yes,  it  was  a  bright  and  busy  summer  at  Alvarley 
— while  in  their  homes  or  holiday  quarters,  a  couple  of 
hundred  miles  away,  Dicky  Johnny's  aunts  and  real 
uncles  concerned  themselves  with  their  own  affairs; 
while  a  bundle  of  scrip  reposed  in  a  City  lawyer's  safe; 
while  in  far  North  Queensland  men  toiled  in  a  mine 
and  a  manager  grew  sick  of  his  job.  .  .  . 

When  autumn  came  and  the  rush  of  outdoor  work 
slackened,  Thomas  found  time  to  go  into  his  accounts. 
It  was  late  one  night  when  he  struck  a  balance,  and 
the  first  thing  he  did  after  verifying  his  figures  was 
to  go  softly  upstairs.  As  was  only  to  be  expected, 
Dicky  Johnny  was  sleeping  soundly ;  nevertheless, 
Thomas  sighed  because  he  could  not  share  the  good 
news  there  and  then. 

In  the  morning  Thomas  announced  a  holiday.  They 
would  take  train  to  the  nearest  town,  and 

"And  what  shall  we  do  there?"  inquired  Dicky 
Johnny,  who,  like  other  children,  preferred  definite 
anticipations  to  possible  surprises. 

"You  shall  buy  anything  you  like,  and  choose  what 
we  shall  have  for  dinner,"  said  Thomas  recklessly. 
"And  I  want  to  buy  some  little  books,"  he  added,  "be- 
cause soon  I'm  going  to  begin  to  give  you  lessons,  so 
that  you'll  be  ready  for  school  next  year." 

It  was  a  merry  day.  The  only  part  of  it  that  did 
not  much  interest  the  boy  was  a  visit  to  the  bank,  where 


DICKY  JOHNNY  153 

Thomas  opened  an  account,  in  the  name  of  Richard 
John  Temple,  with  a  hundred  pounds,  the  bulk  of  the 
season's  profits. 

"You've  brought  me  luck,  Dicky  Johnny,"  he  said 
at  dinner.  "There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not 
have  a  fine  florist  business  before  long." 

"Yes,"  said  Dicky  Johnny,  "and  you'll  help  me  to 
sail  my  new  steamer  in  the  big  tank,  won't  you,  Uncle 
Tom?" 

"Rather!"  assented  Thomas,  who  was  in  high  spirits. 
"We  have  good  times  together,  don't  we,  old  man?" 

The  boy,  his  mouth  being  full,  nodded  emphatically. 

"And  you  don't  wish  you  lived  with  any  other  un- 
cle?" 

A  vigorous  shake  of  the  yellow  head  almost  satis- 
fied Thomas. 

"And  we're  going  to  stick  to  each  other  always,  eh, 
Dicky  Johnny  ?"  he  asked  softly. 

Dicky  Johnny  laid  down  his  spoon  and  shoved  his 
hand  into  Thomas's. 

Which  was  all  that  Thomas  wanted. 

With  the  exception  of  one  childish  ailment,  which 
troubled  Thomas  far  more  than  the  patient,  life  at  the 
cottage  went  on  smoothly  and  cheerfully,  and  the  year 
drew  to  its  close.  Christmas,  of  course,  had  to  be 
properly  celebrated,  and  Thomas  took  delight  in  pro- 
viding treats  for  the  boy  and  his  young  friends. 

On  Christmas  Eve  there  arrived  by  post  several  par- 
cels directed  to  Master  Richard  John  Temple.  They 
were  from  aunts  and  uncles  whose  names  even  were 
not  familiar  to  him;  but  they  contained  handsome 
presents  for  a  little  boy  to  receive.  Thomas  was  sur- 
prised, but  gratified.  He  wrote  warmly  grateful 
acknowledgments  on  the  boy's  behalf  and  his  own. 
Ere  the  year  ended  he  got  a  reply  from  his  cousin 


154  KIDDIES      ) 

Adela,  inviting  Dicky  to  spend  a  few  weeks  at  her 
home;  she,  her  husband  and  her  children  would  be 
delighted  to  have  the  little  fellow  and  would  make  his 
stay  as  happy  as  possible.  Again  Thomas  was  sur- 
prised, but  now  he  was  more  troubled  than  gratified. 
The  visit  might  be  good  for  Dicky  Johnny;  it  might 
mean  much  happiness.  He,  Thomas,  had  no  right  to 
refuse  it,  though  the  very  idea  of  it  hurt  him.  He  told 
the  boy  all  he  knew — which  was  not  a  great  deal — 
about  Aunt  Adela,  her  home,  and  her  children,  being 
very  careful  to  say  nothing  that  might  seem  unattrac- 
tive to  the  young  mind.  But  Dicky  Johnny  refused 
absolutely  to  visit  Aunt  Adela  or  anybody  else. 
Wherefore  Thomas,  his  heart  relieved  but  his  mind 
not  altogether  easy,  sent  the  nicest  answer  he  could 
write  in  the  circumstances. 

A  week  later  came  a  note  from  Winston  Temple, 
mildly  remonstrative.  Had  Thomas  considered  Rich- 
ard's interests  in  giving  way  to  Richard's  childish  in- 
clinations? It  had  been  exceedingly  good  of  Adela  to 
invite  the  boy,  and  he,  Winston,  was  sure  the  boy 
would  enjoy  himself  once  he  were  in  her  home. 
Adela,  he  understood,  left  the  invitation  open.  Would 
not  Thomas  reconsider  the  matter,  and  write  within  a 
week? 

Thomas,  while  resenting  this  letter,  did  honestly 
reconsider  the  matter,  and  sought  to  induce  Dicky 
Johnny  to  do  the  same.  But  now  Dicky  Johnny  be- 
came alarmed. 

Late  one  night  Thomas  found  him  sobbing. 

"What  is  it,  old  man,  what  is  it?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Tom,  don't  send  me  away  from  you; 
don't  let  them  take  me  away." 

"Not  likely!"  said  Thomas,  husky  with  the  lump 
in  his  throat. 


DICKY  JOHNNY  155 

Far  away  in  North  Queensland  men  still  toiled  in  a 
mine,  but  a  manager  gave  a  dinner  to  an  engineer. 
And  not  so  far  away  a  City  lawyer  stood  at  his  open 
safe,  holding — nay,  clutching — a  bundle  of  scrip.  .  .  . 


IV 

"Yes,"  said  Winston  Temple,  stretching  his  feet  to 
the  parlour  fire,  "it's  a  weary  journey,  but  I  felt  a 
talk  with  you,  Thomas,  would  be  better  than  much 
writing.  You  got  my  wire,  of  course." 

"Thank  you.  You  might  have  allowed  me  to  offer 
you  some  hospitality.  Mary  is  quite  capable,  you 
know." 

"I'm  sure  she  is.  However,  I  didn't  want  to  dis- 
turb your  arrangements  more  than  I  could  help,  so  I 
dined  on  the  express." 

"Must  you  go  back  to-night?" 

"Unfortunately,  yes.  But  I  shall  sleep  on  board. 
Is  Richard  John  gone  to  bed?" 

"Nearly  two  hours  ago." 

"I  should  like  to  have  seen  him,"  said  Winston, 
lighting  a  cigar,  after  offering  his  case  to  Thomas,  who 
shook  his  head.  "Yes;  I  should  like  to  have  made  his 
better  acquaintance.  I  must  hope  to  do  so  in  the  near 
future,  Thomas." 

Thomas  stooped  from  his  chair  and  poked  the  fire 
which  was  not  requiring  attention.  Ever  since  the 
arrival  of  the  telegram  he  had  been  possessed  by  inde- 
finable forebodings,  tormented  by  the  question,  "What 
can  Winston  want  with  me  that  he  should  take  such  a 
journey?" 

"We  all  hope  to  make  his  better  acquaintance 
shortly,"  the  smooth  voice  of  the  visitor  continued. 
"And  we  shall  not  forget  how  exceedingly  good  you 
have  been  to  Richard  John." 


156  KIDDIES      1 

Methodically  Thomas  put  the  poker  in  its  place, 
and  raised  himself  slowly  till  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
other's  bland  countenance.  Moistening  his  lips,  he 
said: 

"What  exactly  are  you  speaking  about,  Winston? 
I  think  my  letters  made  it  quite  clear  that  Dicky 
Johnny  could  not  pay  any  visits — in  the  meantime,  at 
any  rate.  When  he  is  older,  and  when  I  have  more 
leisure,  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  take  a  trip  to  your 
city  and  see  you  all.  It  will  be  only  right  that  he 
should  make  the  acquaintance  of  his  relatives — as  soon 
as  possible.  But  at  present ' 

Winston  gave  his  cigar  a  little  wave  in  the  air: 
"My  dear  Thomas,"  he  said,  "my  object  in  this  visit 
is  to  induce  you  to  let  Richard  come  to  us  with  the 
least  possible  delay — say  within  a  week " 

"That  is  impossible!" 

"Any  outfit  he  requires  shall  be  provided  on  his  ar- 
rival. It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  trouble — 

"Stop,  if  you  please!"  There  was  a  curious  light  in 
the  eyes  of  Thomas.  "I  am  sorry  you  have  taken  such 
a  journey  on  such  a  mission,  Winston,  for  I  must  tell 
you  quite  frankly  that  nothing  will  induce  me  to  let 
Dicky  Johnny  go  against  his  desire ' 

"He  is  too  young  to  be  allowed  to  decide  such  a 
matter." 

"He  is  old  enough  to  know  when  he  is  happy.  Be- 
sides, he  is  in  my  charge." 

Winston  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigar. 

"My  dear  Thomas,"  he  said  calmly,  "there  is  really 
no  necessity  for  either  of  us  to  show  any  heat  in  this 
discussion.  I  have  come  here  as  your  friend  and  as 
the  boy's  friend  also.  If  you  will  listen  to  me  for  a 
few  minutes " 

"Why  do  you  want  the  boy  now  ?" 


DICKY  JOHNNY  157 

"If  you  will  listen  to  me,  I  shall  try  to  explain." 
Thomas  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  shortly. 

"In  the  first  place,"  began  Winston,  eyeing  the 
glow  of  his  cigar,  "I  am  ready  to  admit — we  are  all 
ready  to  admit — that  eight  months  ago  we  agreed 
that  you  should  have  charge  of  Richard.  But  I  hope 
you  will  be  equally  ready  to  admit  that  such  an  agree- 
ment— such  a  simply  verbal  and  friendly  agreement — 
need  not  be  continued  in  the  face  of — er — altered 
circumstances."  He  paused,  but  his  cousin  merely 
tightened  his  lips. 

He  proceeded :  "In  the  second  place,  Thomas,  you 
will  admit  that  we  have  got  to  consider  the  boy's  fu- 
ture in  a  practical  fashion;  we  have  no  right  to  let 
sentiment  interfere " 

"I  have  considered  the  boy's  future  in  a  practical 
fashion,  and  shall  continue  to  do  so,"  said  Thomas 
stiffly.  "I  am  not  a  rich  man,  Winston,  but  I  have 
enough  for  us  both.  My  private  income  is  small, 
but  the  nursery  has  begun  to  pay.  Already  I  have 
been  able  to  set  aside  money  for  Dicky  Johnny;  and 
I  may  add  that  when  he  came  to  me  I  increased  my 
life  insurance,  so  that  whatever  happens  to  me,  he 
shall  be  provided  for." 

"You  have  been  exceedingly  generous,"  murmured 
Winston.  "As  I  said,  we  shall  not  forget " 

"It  was  the  least  I  could  do,"  Thomas  interrupted, 
"the  least  I  could  do — after  your  giving  Dicky  Johnny 
to  me." 

Winston  bowed.  "Is  it  not  putting  it  a  little 
strongly  to  call  it  giving?"  he  inquired  softly.  "But 
even  if  you  insist  on  the  word,  you  will  not  deny 
the  possibility  of  a — er — gift  being  made  without 
due  reflection  and  consideration.  You  remember  how 
hurriedly  everything  was  done,  Thomas?  Please  un- 


158  KIDDIES 

derstand  that  we  take  all  responsibility  for  the  error, 
and  that  none  of  us  shall  ever  forget  how  you " 

"Man,"  cried  Thomas,  "what  are  you  driving  at? 
Do  you,  or  the  others,  fancy  that  Dicky  Johnny  is  not 
safe  with  me?  Have  I  not  shown  you  that  he  is 
provided  for  sufficiently,  if  not  handsomely?  And 
here  he  has  the  best  life  a  child  could  have.  He  has 
his  young  friends  to  play  with,  and  Mary  is  almost  a 
mother  to  him;  his  existence  is  spent  among  clean 
and  lovely  things.  And  his  education  is  not  going  to 
be  neglected.  I  have  begun  it  myself  in  a  small  way. 
Next  year  he  will  have  lessons  with  the  doctor's  and 
the  minister's  children.  The  year  following " 

"My  dear  Thomas,  I  have  never  doubted  your 
doing  your  utmost  for  Richard.  At  the  same  time, 
I  must  bid  you  ask  yourself  whether  such  an  up- 
bringing is  the  right  one  for  a  boy  in  Richard's 
position?" 

Under  his  cousin's  stare  the  eyes  of  the  speaker 
dropped. 

"Richard's  position !" 

Winston's  smile  was  bland.  "You  do  not  read 
the  papers  carefully,  so  I  must  explain.  Perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  explained  at  the  outset,  but  I  desired 
to  learn  how  much  you  knew."  He  cleared  his 
throat. 

"When  my  poor  brother  was  lost,  he  left  practically 
nothing  but  forty  thousand  shares  in  the  Hero  Copper 
Mining  Company,  which " 

"Were  not  worth  the  paper  they  were  printed  on. 
I  know  all  about  that,  Winston.  I  am  quite  aware 
that  anything  else  that  the  boy's  father  left  barely 
covered  his  liabilities." 

"Yes;  as  you  say,  the  shares  were  not  worth  the 
paper  they  were  printed  on — then;  now,  however, 


DICKY  JOHNNY  159 

they  are  worth  considerably  more.  The  mine  has 
turned  out  remarkably  well — as  much  as  twenty  per 
cent,  copper,  I've  been  told.  Before  Christmas  the 
shares  had  touched  nearly  ten  shillings;  to-day  they 
were  done  at  sixty-five.  We  are  of  opinion  that  they 
ought  to  be  sold  now,  and  a  suggestion  has  been  sent 
to  Kerman,  the  lawyer,  whom  my  brother  had  made 
his  executor.  No  doubt  he  will  agree  that  it  is  the 
right  thing  to  do.  He  seemed  to  have  private  in- 
formation of  the  mine,  otherwise  we  should  have 
pressed  him  to  sell  before  now.  But  as  things  have 
turned  out,  the  delay  has  been  quite  advantageous. 
They  will  fetch  over  a  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
That,  Thomas,  is  Richard's  position,  to-day.  By  the 

time  he  comes  of  age "  With  a  small  laugh, 

Winston  threw  out  his  hands. 

Thomas  was  pale.  "It  is  very  wonderful,"  he  said 
softly,  as  if  to  himself.  "I  must  see  to  it  that  Dicky 
Johnny  becomes  a  man  capable  of  bearing  such  a 
great  responsibility.  Very  wonderful!"  he  whispered, 
and  sat  gazing  at  the  fire  as  though  he  were  alone  in 
the  room. 

Winston  frowned  in  a  puzzled  manner.  It  was 
hardly  the  reception  he  had  anticipated  for  his  startling 
news.  But  possibly  his  cousin  was  stunned.  "So  of 
course  you  must  see,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  the  posi- 
tion, not  only  of  Richard,  but  of  us  all,  has  altered 
tremendously  since  that  meeting  in  my  house.  We 
must  all  take  our  share  in  fitting  Richard  for  the  im- 
portant future  that  lies  before  him.  You  agree  with 
me,  do  you  not,  Thomas?" 

Thomas  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  seemed  to  take  a  grip  of  himself.  He 
faced  his  cousin. 

"No,"  he  said  firmly,  "I  do  not  see  that  any  one's 
position,  save  Dicky  Johnny's,  has  changed," 


160  KIDDIES 

"You  mean,"  said  Winston,  "that  you  do  not  accept 
the  proposals  of  the  boy's  nearest  relations?" 

"I  mean  to  hold  to  the  agreement  which  the  boy's 
nearest  relations  made  with  me  eight  months  ago." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  faces  of  both  men  had 
hardened,  but  Winston's  was  hard  to  harshness.  He 
spoke  first. 

"You  had  better  take  time  to  realise  the  situation. 
You  have  nothing  to  gain  by  attempting  to  keep  the 
boy  here — have  you?" 

Thomas  flushed.  "You  have  neither  right  nor 
reason  to  make  such  a  suggestion.  So  far  as  the  boy's 
fortune  is  concerned,  the  sooner  you  have  it  placed  in 
charge  of  the  Public  Trustee  the  better  I'll  be  pleased. 
Dicky  Johnny  is  my  care  until  he  comes  of  age.  Man, 
you  drive  me  to  remind  you  of  how  easily  you  all 
parted  with  him  eight  months  ago.  Do  you  think  I 
am  going  to  let  you  have  him  now?" 

All  blandness  had  departed  from  Winston  Temple. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  not  a  matter  for  you  to  decide," 
he  began  viciously.  "There  is  the  law " 

Thomas  stiffened.  "There  is  justice,  too,  I  hope. 
But  I'll  fight  you  to  my  last  farthing " 

"It  will  probably  cost  you   that  before  you  lose." 

There  was  no  reply,  for  fear  fell  upon  Thomas. 
After  all,'  what  claim  had  he  over  Dicky  Johnny? 
Even  had  he  a  claim,  would  he  be  justified  in  exercis- 
ing it? 

"Yes,"  said  Winston  coldly,  "you  had  better  take 
time  to  think  it  over — say  a  week  from  to-day — 
though  I  imagine  you  will  see  things  in  a  more  reason- 
able light  by  to-morrow.  I  regret  that  you  should 
not  have  received  my  proposal  in  a  more  friendly 
spirit,  but  I  must  endeavour  to  make  allowances " 

"Man,"  cried  Thomas,  "don't  you  understand 
that — that  the  boy  is  everything  to  me?" 


DICKY  JOHNNY  161 

The  other's  face  softened  slightly.  "Well,  Thomas, 
you  must  not  let  your  heart  get  the  better  of  your 
head — for  the  boy's  sake."  He  rose.  "I  trust  every- 
thing may  be  amicably  settled  this  day  week.  You 
can  either  bring  Richard  to  us,  or,  if  it  suits  you 
better,  his  Aunt  Adela  will  come  here  for  him."  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "Let  us  end  this  painful  inter- 
view. I  shall  sit  in  the  inn  until  my  train  is  due." 

"I  cannot  ask  you  to  stay,  nor  can  I  shake  hands 
with  you,"  said  Thomas  hoarsely,  and  turned  away 
to  open  the  door. 

Without  further  words  they  parted,  these  two 
cousins  who  had  never  been  real  friends.  But  to- 
night they  had  got  a  glimpse  of  each  other's  souls, 
and  there  was  hatred  and  contempt  between  them. 

Dicky  Johnny  lay  snug  in  his  little  bed,  cuddling  his 
bear.  In  the  dim  illumination  of  a  night-light  Thomas 
gazed  upon  him. 

"My  God!"  whispered  the  man.  "What  am  I 
to  do?" 


And  throughout  the  week  that  followed  he  did 
nothing.  Stay,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  an  old  friend  in 
the  City  who  had  always  remembered  him  at  Christ- 
mas. 

Happily  spring  that  year  was  early,  the  weather 
brilliant,  and  Dicky  Johnny  could  spend  most  of  his 
waking  hours  out  of  doors.  Nevertheless,  the  boy 
was  perplexed. 

On  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day  he  came  to 
Thomas,  who  was  writing  a  letter.  He  snuggled 
against  the  man's  side. 

"Uncle  Tom,  please?" 

"Yes,  Dicky  Johnny?" 


162  KIDDIES 

"Are  you — feeling — lonesome?" 

Thomas  winced.  "What  makes  you  ask  that, 
Dicky  Johnny?" 

"  'Cause  I'm  feeling — lonesome,  too." 

Thomas  dropped  the  pen,  and  took  the  boy  on  his 
knee. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan,"  he 
said  steadily,  "for  us  to  go  away  in  the  train  to  see 
all  your  aunts  and  uncles?" 

Dicky  Johnny  burst  into  tears.  Perhaps  he  could 
not  have  told  why  he  wept.  But  it  had  been  a  per- 
plexing week,  and  a  child's  trouble  is  not  necessarily 
small  just  because  it  happens  to  be  vague.  He  did 
not  know  what  was  wrong.  He  clung  to  his  pro- 
tector. 

"I  would  take  you  safely  to  them,"  said  Thomas, 
miserably,  "and  perhaps  later  on " 

"No,  no;  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  want  to  stay 
here." 

Just  then  the  only  mail  of  the  day  arrived.  Mary 
entered  with  the  letters,  and  went  out  with  tears  in 
her  eyes  because  Dicky  Johnny  had  had  tears  in  his. 

Thomas  made  a  hasty  inspection  of  the  three 
envelopes.  Nothing  from  Winston!  Another  day  of 
suspense — another  night ! 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  Uncle  Tom,"  sobbed  the  boy. 

Thomas  held  him  close.  "Dicky  Johnny,"  he 
whispered,  "supposing  you  and  I  went  away  together 
in  a  big  steamer,  not  to  see  anybody,  but  just  to 
enjoy  ourselves — how  would  that  do?" 

After  a  short  silence  Dicky  Johnny  mumbled, 
"You  wouldn't  ever  leave  me,  would  you?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"Then  I  think  I'd  like  going  in  the  big  steamer." 
Dicky  Johnny  dried  his  eyes  on  Thomas's  shoulder. 
"When  shall  we  go,  Uncle  Tom?" 


DICKY  JOHNNY  163 

"Perhaps  quite  soon.  And  neither  of  us  must  feel 
lonesome  now,  eh?" 

"I  won't,  if  you  don't,"  said  the  boy,  "  'cause  I 
love  you  so  very  dearly.  Was  you  crying  too?" 

"All  right  now,"  said  Thomas,  setting  him  down. 
"Run  out  to  the  garden,  and  I'll  be  after  you  as  soon 
as  I  finish  this  letter." 

"Don't  be  long,"  the  youngster  replied  cheerfully, 
from  the  door. 

It  was  a  wild  idea  that  had  come  to  Thomas. 
Suerely  his  heart  had  got  the  better  of  his  head.  For 
now  he  was  determined  that  Dicky  Johnny  should 
not  be  taken  from  him  a  day  sooner  than  he  could 
help,  and  he  was  prepared  to  run  away  with  the  boy 
to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  in  order  that  he 
might  possess  his  treasure  a  little  longer.  Nay;  he 
would  not  surrender  his  charge  until  captured,  or 
until  his  money  was  all  spent.  And  so  he  completed 
his  letter  to  a  shipping  firm  that  ran  steamers  to  New 
Zealand. 

But  when  he  went  out  to  the  garden,  Dicky  Johnny 
caught  his  hand  and  begged  that  they  should  not  go 
anywhere. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  away,  Uncle  Tom,  when 
it's  so  nice  here?" 

Poor  Thomas  had  nothing  to  say.  Yet  he  posted 
the  letter,  wrondering  desperately  what  he  should  do 
if  Adela  arrived  writhin  the  next  four  days.  Then  he 
went  and  told  Mary,  who  broke  down  completely 
and  so  disheartened  him  that  he  sent  a  second  letter 
to  the  shipping  office  cancelling  the  first. 

He  was  powerless,  he  told  himself — utterly  power- 
less. 

Three  days  more  went  past,  without  bringing  any 
communication,  threatening  or  otherwise,  from  Win- 
ston. Nor  did  another  letter  which  Thomas  had 


164  KIDDIES 

expected,  or  hoped  for,  come  to  hand.  The  man  was 
distracted. 

"Dicky  Johnny,"  he  said  on  the  evening  of  the 
third  day,  "would  you  mind  if  Mary  bathed  you 
to-night?  I — I  don't  feel  very  fit." 

"Don't  be  lonesome  again,"  said  Dicky  Johnny, 
kissing  him ;  "it  makes  me  cry  inside." 

"All  right,  old  man !  I'll  come  up  and  see  you 
after  you're  in  bed." 

"And  we  don't  need  to  go  away  anywhere  after 
all?" 

"No;  we  shall  stay  at  home  as  long  as  possible. 
Off  you  go  to  Mary." 

Left  to  himself,  Thomas  went  out  to  the  garden, 
where  already  the  promise  of  the  year  was  apparent. 
What  promise  had  it  for  him?  What  were  a  million 
flowers  to  the  face  of  a  child?  The  dusk  was  falling. 
Thomas  felt  beaten  and  utterly  broken.  In  all 
probability  there  would  be  word  from  Winston  in  the 
morning,  and  Adela  would  follow.  Certainly  the 
parting  could  not  be  much  longer  delayed. 

As  Thomas  strolled  towards  the  gate  to  the  main 
road,  it  was  opened  by  a  man  whom  he  took  to  be  a 
gardener  coming  to  tend  the  firing  of  the  hot-houses. 
A  few  seconds  later  he  was  holding  out  his  hand  and 
exclaiming  in  astonishment: 

"Why,  Gordon,  is  it  really  you?" 

"Just  me,"  said  the  other,  a  little  stout  man,  giv- 
ing him  a  hearty  grip.  "Good  of  you  to  recognise  me 
after  all  those  years.  I  had  been  away  and  only  got 
your  letter  yesterday.  I — I  thought  I  had  better 
answer  it  in  person." 

"Man,  I'm  grateful,  but  what  a  distance  to  come!" 
said  Thomas,  hurrying  his  guest  to  the  house.  "We'll 
have  supper  immediately." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Gordon  nervously,  "the  thing 


DICKY  JOHNNY  165 

was  too  big  to  write  about.  And — I  say,  look  here, 
Nairn,  let  me  tell  you  my  story  before  we  do  any- 
thing else." 

"Bad  news,  I  suppose?"  murmured  Thomas  wearily. 

"Yes;  it's  pretty  bad."  Then  after  a  pause,  Gordon 
went  on:  "Well,  as  I  said,  I  didn't  get  your  letter 
till  yesterday.  It  asked  me  to  see  Kerman,  the  lawyer, 
and,  if  possible,  find  out  certain  things  about  your 
cousin,  the  late  Richard  Temple,  and  the  legal  posi- 
tion of  an  orphan- 


"Yes,  yes,  Gordon;  but  please  tell  me- 


"Well,  I  couldn't  see  Kerman,  because  he  has — he 
has — absconded." 

"Absconded !" 

"Appears  to  have  been  gambling  for  years.  Lost 
everything — his  own  fortune  and  other  people's.  They 
talk  of  a  million  of  liabilities  and  no  assets.  He  had 
one  of  the  best  practices  in  the  City.  There  was  a 
big  story  in  the  papers  this  morning."  Gordon 
paused,  and  looked  at  his  host  in  amazement.  "What's 
the  matter,  Nairn?  Pull  yourself  together,  man! 
Don't  laugh!  I  just  want  to  say  that  if  you  or 
your  friends  have  been  really  badly  hit  by  this  busi- 
ness, I'm  not  without  a  bit  to  spare.  That's  why  I 
came." 

Thomas  did  not  seem  to  comprehend  the  words 
that  might  have  been  of  such  particular  moment  to 
himself. 

"Has  Kerman  lost  everything?"  he  gasped,  his  face 
working. 

"Well,  I — I'm  afraid  so.  There's  a  rumour  that 
the  last  of  his  clients'  securities  he  got  rid  of  was  a  big 
parcel  of  shares  in  a  copper  mine  now  booming,  but 
he  sold  at  about  five  shillings." 

Thomas  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair,  wavering. 
"Oh,  God  bless  him!"  he  whispered;  then  with  a 


166  KIDDIES 

sudden  mental  vision  of  the  fugitive  wretch,  "God 
help  him!" 

Gordon  sprang  up  to  catch  and  support  the  swaying 
figure.  But  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
in  ran  a  little  rosy  boy  in  pyjamas. 

"Did  you  forget  to  come  up?"  cried  Dicky  Johnny, 
ignoring  the  stranger. 

Thomas  steadied  himself  and  caught  up  the  child, 
holding  him  close. 

"Shake  hands  with  our  good  friend,  Mr.  Gordon," 
he  said.  "He's  not  an  uncle." 

The  boy  put  out  his  hand  readily. 

"And  who  are  you?"  asked  Mr.  Gordon  pleas- 
antly. 

A  wondrous  sweet  smile  illuminated  the  counte- 
nance of  Thomas  as  he  carried  the  boy  to  the  door. 

"He  is  my— son!" 


XII 
SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES 


THE  young  girl  stood  in  the  unkindly  glare  of  the  two 
incandescents  with  which  the  ugly  five-branched 
gasolier  was  fitted.  Saving  herself  and  the  lights 
there  was  nothing  in  the  room  suggestive  of  freshness 
or  modernity.  Austerity,  solidity,  stolidity  were 
everywhere,  on  the  walls,  in  the  furnishings,  in  the 
other  occupants.  The  parlour  was  old-fashioned 
without  any  of  the  charm  sometimes  pertaining  to 
such  an  apartment;  it  had  an  air  of  harsh  respecta- 
bility ;  a  big  fire  might  make  it  uncomfortably  warm, 
but  never  cosy. 

The  fingers  of  the  young  girl  were  knit  in  front  of 
her  slim  body,  against  the  plain  navy  blue  frock. 
Her  dark  eyes  moved  eagerly,  anxiously,  between  the 
man  and  woman  who  occupied  the  hair-cloth  arm- 
chairs on  either  side  of  the  hearth,  the  uncle  and  aunt 
who  had  given  her  a  home  three  years  ago.  Clearly 
she  was  awaiting  their  verdict  on  a  matter  of  no  little 
importance  to  herself. 

A  glance  at  the  countenances  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brash  would  have  satisfied  you  that  they  were  honest 
people ;  which  is  not  to  say  that  the  countenances 
were  bright  and  open ;  rather  were  they  inclined  to 
dulness  and  aloofness.  They  suggested  a  puritanism 
capable  of  enduring  all  manner  of  suffering  for  con- 
science's sake — and,  perhaps,  of  inflicting  it  too;  for 
167 


1 68  KIDDIES 

it  is  difficult  to  be  quite  so  righteous  as  were  the 
Brashes,  without  being  a  little  self-righteous  also. 

Mr.  Brash  completed  his  perusal  of  the  list  of  local 
subscriptions  to  the  Puntas  Arenas  Mission  in  which 
he  was  deeply  and  practically  interested,  closed  the 
pamphlet,  laid  it  upon  his  knees,  and  took  up  the 
envelope  which  his  wife  had  silently  laid  on  the  table 
at  his  elbow,  five  minutes  previously.  The  envelope 
had  been  opened,  apparently  in  haste. 

As  he  withdrew  its  contents,  a  card  partly  printed 
and  partly  written  on,  the  young  girl  quivered,  and 
her  white  teeth  closed  on  her  scarlet  under  lip.  A 
frown  appeared  on  Mr.  Brash's  shaven  face. 

Just  then  the  door  was  opened  and  a  man,  heavily 
built,  hairy  and  grizzled,  and  rather  shabbily  clad, 
entered.  With  a  glance  round  the  room  he  crossed 
to  the  window  and  seated  himself  on  the  hair-cloth 
sofa,  picking  up,  as  he  did  so,  the  morning's  paper. 
No  one  in  the  room  paid  the  slightest  attention  to 
the  new  arrival,  who  forthwith  became  immersed  in 
the  shipping  news. 

Mr.  Brash's  frown  deepened.  His  keen  grey  eyes 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"Surely  you  do  not  expect  your  aunt  and  me  to 
grant  permission  for  you  to  attend  this  gathering, 
Hilda,"  he  said. 

Hilda's  face  relaxed  for  a  moment  as  if  she  would 
speak.  Then  her  lips  met  in  a  straight  line. 

"I  have  already  told  Hilda,"  said  Mrs.  Brash, 
without  pausing  in  her  crocheting,  "that  we  do  not 
approve  of  dancing-parties;  but  she  insisted  on  hav- 
ing your  opinion." 

"It  is  out  of  the  question,"  he  said,  not  harshly  but 
very  firmly.  "No  doubt  your  friends  the  Bensons 
mean  kindly,  but  it  would  please  me  more  were  you 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      169 

to  associate  with  less  light-minded  girls — the  Smalls, 
for  example." 

"The  Smalls  are  awful  stodges,"  said  Hilda  in- 
voluntarily. "At  least" — quickly — "I  don't  get  on 
with  them.  And  Kitty  Benson " 

"That  is  not  the  way  to  talk  of  the  Smalls," 
Mrs.  Brash  interrupted.  "Their  father  and 
mother " 

"Darned  old  hypocrites!"  came  in  a  grunting  voice 
from  the  man  behind  the  newspaper. 

"William!"  said  Mrs.  Brash,  "shall  I  leave  the 
room,  or  will  you?" 

"Sorry,"  said  the  grunting  voice.  "I'll  dry  up. 
But  the  bare  mention  o'  them  Smalls  always  makes 
me  sick." 

"Be  good  enough  to  hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Brash.  He  returned  the  card  to  the  envelope, 
which  he  replaced  on  the  table. 

"Uncle  Robert,"  cried  Hilda;  "why  won't  you  let 
me  go?  I'm  nearly  fifteen,  and  it's  for  Christmas 
Eve,  and  it's  my  first  dance " 

"My  dear  child,  you  must  allow  me  to  judge  for 
you  in  this  matter.  I  am  willing  to  allow  for  dis- 
appointment on  your  part,  though  I  must  say  I  had 
hoped  that  by  this  time  your  aunt's  views  and  my 
own  on  such  amusements  as  dancing  and  theatre- 
going  would  have  been  clear  to  you." 

"But  what  harm " 

"You  are  too  young  to  demand  explanations,  but 
you  are  old  enough  to  obey  those  in  whose  charge  you 
are." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"My  white  frock  would  do,  though  it's  miles  too 
short,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "Oh,  Aunt  Frances,  couldn't 
you " 

"You  have  heard  what  your  uncle  has  said,  my 


170  KIDDIES 

dear,"  replied  the  lady  stiffly.  "Besides,  what  would 
you  do  at  a  dancing-party  when  you  cannot 
dance?" 

"Can't  dance!  Why,  Aunt  Frances,  I  can  dance 
like — like  anything!  I  had  heaps  of  dancing-lessons 

when  I  was  a  little  thing,  and  father  and  mother " 

She  stopped  short.  In  a  vague  way  she  had  ere  now 
gathered  that  many  things  in  her  parents'  lives  had 
not  been  "approved  of"  by  her  aunt  and  uncle.  But 
though  she  had  suffered  veiled  hints,  she  had  never 
been  straightly  informed  that  her  mother,  her  aunt's 
sister,  had  been  "flighty  and  extravagant,"  whilst 
her  father  had  quitted  the  world  without  leaving  any- 
thing to  his  credit — as  we  understand  the  phrase  in 
these  practical  days.  "Aunt  Frances,  didn't  you 
dance  when  you  were  a  girl?"  The  question  was 
entreating. 

The  woman  flushed.  "I  had  no  one  to  show  me  the 
sin  of  it,  as  you  have,"  she  replied. 

"But — but  you  haven't  shown  me  the  sin  of  it." 
Hilda  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"That  will  do,  Hilda— that  will  do,"  said  Mr. 
Brash,  his  voice  harder. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  she  cried,  near  to  tears.  "All  the 
girls  at  school  are  allowed  to  dance — except  those 
Smalls — fat-legged  .  .  .  pasty-faced  .  .  .  goody-goody 
things !" 

A  "hear,  hear!"  came  from  behind  the  news- 
paper. 

"Leave  the  room;  go  to  bed,  Hilda,"  said  Mrs. 
Brash  wrathfully.  "And  pray  to  God  to  pardon  you 
that  rebellious  and  pleasure-loving  spirit." 

"I'll  go  to  bed,"  the  girl  returned  passionately, 
"but  I  don't  believe  God  is  so — so  hard  as  you  make 
Him  out  to  be!"  Her  eyes  filled,  she  choked,  and 
fled. 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      171 

With  something  approaching  horror  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brash  regarded  each  other. 

"I  don't  know  what  she  is  coming  to,"  the  latter 
said  at  last. 

"She's  coming  to  what  you're  driving  her  to,"  said 
the  man  on  the  sofa,  throwing  aside  his  paper. 

"You  have  not  been  asked  to  speak,  William,"  said 
Mr.  Brash,  scowling  at  his  brother. 

"True.  I'd  be  a  dummy  if  I  waited  for  invitations 
in  this  happy  home.  I'm  not  given  to  interferin'  in 
your  arrangements,  as  you  well  know,  Robert,  but 
on  this  occasion  I  must  cough  it  up,  or  bust.  Let 
Hilda  go  to  her  dancin'-party.  It's  natural  for  a 
maid  to  want  to  kick  her  heels " 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  leave  the  room,  William?" 
Mrs.  Brash  frigidly  inquired. 

"Not  at  all.  I  want  you  to  back  me  up  against 
Robert.  Let  Hilda  say  she's  sorry  for  her  tantrum — 
though  'twas  only  natural — and  then  tell  her  she  can 
go  to  the  party.  She's  growin'  up.  She'll  soon  be 
a  woman.  Why  do  her  out  o'  sweet  and  youthful 
pleasures?  She's  not  the  sort  to  enjoy  the  Smalls' 
kind  o'  party,  wi'  its  tiddley-winks  and  Simon-says- 
thumbs-up  muck! — I  tell  you,  she's  not.  And  she'll 
eat  her  young  heart  out  if  you  keep  on  rubbin'  in  the 
holiness  as  you've  been  doin'.  There,  I've  said  my 
say,  Robert,  and  I  don't  believe  I've  said  so  much  in 
five  years.  Let  her  go." 

It  was  nearly  a  minute  ere  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brash 
found  their  voices.  William's  temerity  had  fairly  taken 
away  their  breaths.  For  what  right  had  William  to 
offer  an  opinion,  even  with  all  humility  and  diffi- 
dence? William's  history  may  here  be  given  in  a 
few  words.  Robert's  senior  by  a  couple  of  years,  he 
had  been  the  black  sheep  of  Robert's  family.  His 
early  manhood  had  been  spent  at  sea,  but  an  accident 


172  KIDDIES 

to  his  left  arm,  by  rendering  it  almost  powerless,  had 
sent  him  ashore  to  waste  several  years  in  more  or 
less  riotous  living.  Eventually  Robert,  who  had  pros- 
pered, started  him  in  a  small  business.  He  failed. 
Robert  started  him  again,  and  again  he  failed.  He 
was  not  a  toper,  but  he  would  have  his  bouts.  While 
his  manners  were  kindly,  his  speech  was,  to  put  it 
mildly,  careless.  Robert  decided  that  he  was  hope- 
less for  business,  and  he  readily  agreed.  He  was  fit 
only  for  the  sea-life.  Robert  secured  him  a  light  job 
(at  a  light  salary)  in  a  warehouse  at  the  docks.  And 
on  the  third  night  he  went  on  the  spree  with  some  old 
shipmates.  Robert  hardened  his  heart  and  closed 
his  purse.  He  allotted  the  erring  one  an  attic-room 
in  his  house  and  made  him  do  the  lighter  work  of  the 
garden.  He  allowed  him  one  shilling  per  week, 
deeming  that  he  could  not  go  far  wrong  on  that. 
William  preferred  tobacco  to  drink,  so  he  kept  sober 
and  performed  his  duties  fairly  well.  Unfortunately, 
with  all  his  patience  and  justice,  Robert  could  not 
help  adopting,  along  with  his  wife,  a  superior  and 
contemptuous  attitude  towards  his  brother,  which 
went  far  to  killing  the  latter's  sense  of  gratitude. 
William  was  never  permitted  to  forget  that  he  was 
a  pauper  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  his  brother  and 
sister-in-law,  or  that  he  was  a  creature  lacking  alike 
in  religion  and  respectability.  So  it  had  been  for 
seven  years. 

"You  forget  yourself,  William,"  said  Mr.  Brash 
at  last,  freezingly. 

"Maybe,  Robert,  I  do.  The  little  maid  moved 
me.  I  thought  the  days  for  a  petticoat  to  move  me 
were  over.  Sit  still,  Mrs.  Brash.  I  didn't  mean  a 
flannel  one."  William  smiled.  "Come  now,  for- 
give my  roughness — impudence,  if  you  like — but  let 
Hilda  go  to  the  party  and  dance  her  pretty  feet 
sore," 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      173 

"Pah!"  muttered  Mr.  Brash,  and  picked  up  the 
pamphlet  which  had  fallen  on  the  rug. 

Mrs.  Brash  resumed  her  crocheting. 

A  couple  of  minutes  passed. 

"Robert,"  said  William  softly,  "you're  entitled  to 
treat  me  like  dirt,  but  you're  foolish  to  treat  Hilda  as 
if  she  was  clay.  Don't  think  you  can  mould  her 
just  as  you  please,  or  you'll  make  a  mess  of  the  job. 
I  know  her  better  than  you  do.  She  wants  to  love 
you,  but  now  you  won't  let  her ;  your  godliness  freezes 
her.  Don't  break  her  young  spirit.  Poor  little  maid, 
d'you  think  you'll  ever  get  her  to  believe  that  all 
folks  who  dance  are  bound  for  Below?  Darn  it,  you 
don't  believe  that  yourself!" 

"Silence,  William!" 

But  William  was  not  to  be  suppressed.  "I  haven't 
asked  you  for  anything  for  seven  years,  Robert.  No 
doubt,  I've  had  no  right  to  ask  for  anything  after  all 
I  owe  you.  Still,  the  fact  remains  that  I  haven't 
asked.  Now  I'm  asking.  Let  Hilda  feel  you're 
human,  after  all,  by  lettin'  her  go  to  the  dancin'- 
party."  He  paused  and  sighed. 

Mrs.  Brash  gave  him  a  quick,  cold  glance,  but  her 
husband's  eyes  remained  on  the  page. 

"You're  hard,"  said  the  grizzled  man  at  last, 
"very,  very  hard,  and  you're  drivin'  me  to  this. 
Look!" 

So  sudden,  so  peremptory  was  the  command,  that 
the  husband  and  wife  incontinently  obeyed. 

William  had  got  up  and  from  his  waistcoat  pocket 
drawn  a  piece  of  paper.  He  unfolded  it  and  held 
up  between  his  broad  finger  and  thumb  a  shining 
sovereign. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?"  Mr.  Brash's  question 
was  involuntary.  He  stared  at  the  coin. 

"The  savin's  o'  two  years,"  said  William  quietly. 


174  KIDDIES 

"I  was  goin'  to  try  to  save  another  and  then  leave 
you  for  a  week  just  to  see  if  the  sea  was  still  blue. 
But  maybe  I  can  put  this  pretty  quid  to  a  better 
use."  He  cleared  his  throat,  and  continued.  "Since 
I  came  to  this  little  town,  seven  years  ago,  I've  be- 
haved myself  pretty  well.  I've  done  nothin'  to  dis- 
grace you,  Robert,  except  be  your  brother  and  not 
go  to  church.  But  now  I  feel  like  goin'  on  the  razzle- 
dazzle — skite — spree — or  whatever  you  prefer  to  call 
it."  He  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Still  two  and  a  half 
hours  till  the  pubs  close — plenty  o'  time  for  me  to 
paint  this  little  place  magenta.  I'll  guarantee  to  get 
blind,  miraculous  and  roarin',  also  to  get  run  in  and 
have  my  name  in  the  paper  to-morrow.  Care  for 
the  advertisement,  Robert?" 

"If  you  dare,"  began  Mr.  Brash,  whilst  his  wife 
gave  a  gasp  of  horrified  disgust,  and  cried,  "You  shall 
never  enter  this  house  again." 

William  looked  sadly  from  one  to  the  other.  "I'm 
afraid  you  would  never  be  happy  so  long  as  you  knew 
I  had  such  a  fortune  in  my  pocket.  Well,  would  you 
like  me  to  drop  it  into  the  mission-box  on  the  mantel- 


piece 


They  stared  at  him  as  he  walked  to  the  door,  and 
halted  with  his  fingers  on  the  handle. 

Slowly  and  distinctly  he  said:  "Let  Hilda  go  to 
the  party,  and  my  fortune  goes  to  the  mission. 

Otherwise Well,  I'll  give  you  five  minutes  to 

think  it  over.  I'll  go  out  and  have  a  smoke"  (smok- 
ing was  not  permitted  in  the  house),  "but  make  up 
your  minds  for  the  little  maid's  sake." 

And  he  left  the  room. 

Let  no  one  sneer  at  the  Brashes.  Respectability 
like  theirs  knows  no  dread  like  the  dread  of  scandal. 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      175 

On  his  return  to  the  parlour,  William  found  his 
brother  alone. 

"Well,  Robert?" 

"I  have  never  known  you  tell  a  lie,"  said  Robert 
bitterly,  "and  I  presume  you  are  capable  of  carrying 
out  your  unseemly  threat." 

William  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

The  other  coughed  once  or  twice.  "Hilda  may  go 
to  the  dance  on  condition  that  she  leaves  at  nine- 
thirty." 

"No  conditions,  Robert — no  conditions,  please," 
said  William  gently.  "It'll  be  just  as  big  a  sin  to 
dance  till  nine-thirty  as  till  eleven."  He  brought  out 
the  sovereign,  stepped  to  the  mantelpiece  and  held 
it  over  the  black  box.  "Hilda  goes  to  the  dance 
without  anything  bein'  said  or  done  to  spoil  her 
pleasure  in  it — is  that  so,  Robert?" 

Presently  the  gold  chinked  upon  silver  and  copper. 
William  glanced  at  his  brother's  averted  face  and 
passed  to  the  door. 

"I'm  goin'  upstairs,  so  I'll  tell  Hilda  she  has  your 
permission.  The  rest's  our  secret,  I  hope,  Robert. 
I — I'd  be  mighty  glad  if  I  could  do  something  to 
please  you  after  this." 

He  ascended  rather  heavily,  not  so  much  delighted 
with  himself  or  his  victory  after  all.  He  tapped  on 
the  girl's  door.  She  had  not  yet  undressed,  and  she 
came  promptly. 

"You're  to  get  to  your  dancin'-party,  Honey,"  he 
said.  "Be  good  to  your  aunt  and  uncle." 

Her  arms  flew  round  his  neck.  "Dear,  dear  Uncle 
Bill!" 

Well,  perhaps  that  was  his  reward. 


1 76  KIDDIES 


ii 

Not  in  law  alone  may  we  win  our  case  without 
gaining  full  satisfaction.  Hilda  had  no  sooner  dis- 
patched a  painfully  neatly  written  response  to  the 
invitation  than  she  began  to  worry  about  her  raiment 
for  the  great  occasion.  Mrs.  Brash  (who  had  ac- 
cepted the  situation  neither  heartily  nor  resentfully, 
but  as  one  who  simply  keeps  a  bargain)  was  quite  un- 
moved by  the  sighs  over  the  length  of  the  white  frock. 

"It  is  quite  long  enough  for  your  age,"  she  said  at 
last. 

"But  I'm  too  long  for  my  age,"  returned  Hilda, 
who  was  certainly  a  tall  girl.  "Couldn't  it  be  let 
down  just  one  inch?"  She  had  dreamed  one  night 
of  a  new  long  dress  in  apple-green  silk,  but  about 
four  a.m.  the  dream  had  turned  into  a  nightmare, 
wherein  she  had  seen  herself  condemned  to  play 
"consequences"  with  the  Smalls  for  ten  thousand 
years,  garbed  in  a  "fish-wife"  costume  which  she  had 
worn  at  the  age  of  seven.  "Just  one  inch,  Aunt 
Frances." 

"You  are  an  exceedingly  vain  girl,"  was  the  reply. 
"I  cannot  have  it  altered.  But  I  had  better  buy  you 
a  new  pair  of  stockings." 

With  a  very  little  encouragement  Hilda  would  have 
fallen  on  her  neck. 

"And  gloves,"  said  Mrs.  Brash. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  girl,  her  arms  ready. 

"I'll  see  about  them  this  afternoon."  And  Mrs. 
Brash  hurried  away. 

Afternoon  school  that  day  did  not  add  much  to 
Hilda's  education.  Visions,  distracting  yet  delicious, 
of  black  silk  (would  they  be  transparent?)  and  white 
suede  (how  many  buttons?)  floated  between  her  eyes 
and  the  blackboard,  her  books,  her  very  teachers.  She 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      177 

just  escaped  being  "kept  in"  for  gross  inattention  and 
carelessness. 

She  arrived  home  before  her  aunt,  though  she  had 
discussed  dress  with  friends  on  the  way,  and  it  was  a 
long,  long  hour  until  Mrs.  Brash  appeared. 

"You  may  put  them  in  your  drawer  until  required, 
Hilda.  They  are  your  Christmas  gift  from  me,"  she 
said,  and  went  out  again  to  a  Zenana  tea-meeting  ere 
the  trembling  girl  could  thank  her. 

Up  to  her  room  flew  Hilda,  and  tore  open  the  flimsy 
parcel. 

Why  didn't  the  heavens,  or  at  least  the  ceiling,  fall 
when  these  bitter  moans  issued  from  the  quivering 
scarlet  lips  of  this  young  creature? 

"Cashmere!  .  .  .  Cotton!" 

She  cast  them  from  her,  and  threw  herself  on  the 
bed,  hands  clenched,  eyes  streaming. 

Two  hours  later  she  managed  to  say  to  her  aunt: 
"They  are  very  nice ;  thank  you  so  much."  If  Hilda's 
insincerity  be  unpardonable,  then  are  we  all  con- 
demned. 

Despair  was  upon  her.  She  could  not  go  to  the 
Benson  party,  where  every  girl  would  be  wearing  silk 
stockings  and  suede  (or,  at  worst,  silk)  gloves.  Cash- 
mere and  cotton — ugh!  they  were  impossible,  espe- 
cially with  her  terribly  short  skirt  and  plain  slippers. 
And  yet  to  give  up  the  dance! — the  dance  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  with  its  professional  musicians,  its  grown-up 
programmes,  its  conservatory  hung  with  Chinese 
lanterns,  its  nice  boys  who  could  dance  properly,  some 
of  them  in  real  dress-suits!  .  .  . 

That  was  a  bad  night  for  Hilda,  in  more  senses  than 
one.  Age,  toasting  its  toes  at  the  last  of  the  evening 
fire,  is  apt  to  assume  that  healthy  Youth  has  no 
worries  after  ten  p.m.  Age,  with  all  its  experience 
and  wisdom,  its  sense  of  justice  and  propriety,  its 


178  KIDDIES 

care  and  anxiety,  ay,  and  its  love,  may  sit  there  in 
communion  with  Heaven,  while  through  a  wall,  or  up 
a  stair,  Youth,  for  lack  of  a  thought  of  understanding 
sympathy,  writhes  in  a  little  hell  and  perchance  makes 
a  little  deal  with  the  devil.  Mrs.  Brash  had  not 
sought  to  save  money  that  afternoon;  she  had  sought 
to  discourage  vanity.  And  she  had  succeeded  in 
wounding  a  child's  natural  and  proper  pride  to 
desperation  point.  For,  after  all,  what  we  call  wom- 
an's vanity  is  not  so  seldom  just  her  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things.  Mrs.  Brash  herself  owned  specially 
fine  boots  and  gloves  for  Sundays,  and  it  may  not 
be  presumed  that  either  vanity  or  superstition  made 
her  put  them  on,  or  that  she  knew  not  the  parable  of 
the  wedding  garment.  It  is  hard  to  be  good,  but  it 
is  not  necessarily  good  to  be  hard. 

When  Hilda  had  turned  her  damp  pillow  for  the 
tenth  time  she  lay  still,  and  her  wits  went  to  work. 

Ill 

The  young  man  at  the  counter  deftly  tied  the  parcel 
and  scribbled  the  bill. 

Hilda  who  had  been  going  pink  and  white  for  the 
past  five  minutes,  opened  her  purse. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  murmured,  and  again  "oh, 
dear!"  She  felt  that  her  confusion  was  very  badly 
done. 

The  young  man  thought  it  very  pretty.  Also,  he 
knew  who  Hilda  was,  and  he  said  pleasantly:  "It 
will  be  all  right,  miss.  Any  time  you're  passing  will 
do  nicely." 

"I — I'm  so  sorry,"  she  stammered,  now  pale,  "I've 
only  a  shilling  with  me.  But  please  take  it." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  worth  while.  You  can  settle  the 
account  another  time." 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      179 

But  she  put  the  shilling  on  the  counter,  and,  taking 
her  purchase,  hastened,  with  burning  cheeks,  from  the 
shop.  The  young  man's  "good  afternoon"  fell  on 
deaf  ears. 

How  glad  she  was  that  it  was  raining  heavily,  so 
that  she  had  her  waterproof  to  conceal  the  parcel — 
so  that  few  people  were  abroad.  Presently  her 
nervousness  gave  place  to  a  certain  reckless  excite- 
ment. She  could  almost  have  skipped  along  the  wet 
pavement.  How  clever  she  had  been!  How  happy 
she  felt!  Something  was  sure  to  happen  so  that 
she  would  be  able  to  put  everything  all  right.  Oh, 
yes,  something  was  sure  to  happen — especially  at 
Christmas  time.  And  how  she  was  going  to  enjoy  the 
dance!  Only  a  week  now  till  the  glorious  evening! 

It  was  not  until  bed-time  that  she  ventured  to 
unwrap  her  purchases — and  oh,  rapture ! — to  try 
them  on.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  long  cheval 
mirror  in  her  room — a  vain  thing  surely,  in  the  house 
of  Brash! 

She  stood  before  it  in  her  simple  white  petticoat, 
her  slender  shapely  limbs  clad  in  the  coveted  black 
silk.  She  admired  them;  she  moved  them  in  little 
stealthy  dancing-steps ;  she  admired  them  again.  .  .  . 
Very  carefully  she  tried  on  the  gloves — oh,  so  long, 
so  crumply,  such  beauties!  Now  it  didn't  really 
matter  if  her  frock  was  a  little  wee  bit  short,  if  her 
slippers  were  quite  plain.  She  wished  she  had  them 
also  to  put  on  then  and  there — her  corals,  too — but 
they  were  in  a  wardrobe  that  made  noises  when  you 
opened  it.  However,  she  had  plenty  to  admire,  plenty 
to  dream  about  before  the  mirror,  and  though  the 
room  began  to  feel  chilly,  she  lingered,  dusky  hair 
loose,  cheeks  flushed,  eyes  sparkling,  mouth  smiling — 


i8o  KIDDIES 

as  pretty  a  creature  as  ever  thrilled  with  innocent 
desire  of  innocent  pleasure. 

Ah !  All  at  once  the  light  went  out,  for  it  was  Mr. 
Brash's  custom  to  shut  off  the  gas  at  10.30. 

Up  in  the  attic,  William,  who  had  been  browsing  on 
a  sensational  novelette,  borrowed  from  the  gardener, 
muttered  "Darn  it,"  and  composed  himself  for 
slumber.  But  it  was  long  ere  sleep  came  to  Hilda. 
For  with  the  going  out  of  the  light  her  jubilance  had 
departed. 

With  her  finery  under  her  pillow,  and  her  head 
under  the  sheet,  she  lay  awake,  a  victim  of  guilt  and 
dread.  She  owed  the  draper  eight  shillings,  and  she 
had  not  a  penny  in  the  world,  nor  any  prospects  of 
receiving  even  that  modest  sum.  The  Brashes  did 
not  believe  in  young  people  having  money.  Every 
Saturday  morning  Hilda  was  given  a  sixpence,  but  in 
the  evening,  after  prayers,  it  went  into  the  mission- 
box.  The  shilling  she  had  paid  on  account  of  her 
debt  had  been  a  present  from  Uncle  Bill  on  her  last 
birthday.  She  had  been  so  unused  to  spending  money 
that  it  had  lain  in  her  purse  for  months. 

The  hopefulness  of  day  became  the  hopelessness  of 
night.  Eight  shillings!  What  was  she  to  do?  The 
sum  danced  and  writhed  before  her  in  a  figure  of  fire. 
What  would  happen  when  the  account  came,  as  it 
surely  would,  before  long?  What  would  her  aunt  and 
uncle  say?  All  the  wisdom  in  the  world  cannot 
return  satisfactory  answers  to  such  questions,  but 
Hilda  wrestled  with  them  as  the  hours  dragged  past. 
She  thought  of  taking  the  goods  back  to  the  shop, 
with  the  explanation  once  used  by  a  lady  in  her  hear- 
ing to  the  effect  that  they  were  not  at  all  what  she 
had  expected;  but  she  realised  that  she  could  not  face 
the  young  man  again.  She  decided  not  to  go  to  the 
dance,  and  in  the  next  breath  prayed  tp  Heaven  for 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      181 

the  sum  of  eight  shillings.  She  continued  to  repeat 
the  petition  until  an  answer  came  in  the  shape  of 
sleep. 

As  the  days  passed  she  lost  colour.  William  was 
the  first  to  notice  this.  She  came  to  him  one  after- 
noon when  the  others  were  out  and  begged  him  to 
take  charge  of  a  parcel  for  her  until  she  asked  for  it. 
The  parcel  was  tied  with  string,  worsted  and  thread. 
He  agreed  without  questionings,  but  remarked  on 
her  pale  cheeks.  She  said  she  was  all  right,  and  ran 
away.  He  did  not  pursue.  He  was  as  used  to  "the 
ways  o'  petticoats"  as  he  was  convinced  of  the 
futility  of  trying  to  understand  them.  '  'Tis  maybe 
the  excitement,  poor  little  maid,"  he  reflected,  as  he 
locked  the  parcel  in  the  drawer  where  he  kept  tattered 
novelettes  and  old  pipes.  But  he  mentioned  the  pale- 
ness to  Robert,  who  reported  it  to  his  wife. 

"The  holidays  have  upset  her,"  was  Mrs.  Brash's 
verdict,  and  at  bed-time  she  presented  her  niece  with 
a  cup  of  a  peculiarly  repulsive,  old-fashioned  physic. 
Hilda  took  it  in  the  hope  that  it  might  be  part  of  her 
penance. 

The  twenty-fourth  of  December  came  at  last,  yet 
too  soon.  She  was  a  creature  of  apprehensions  till 
the  afternoon,  when  sheer  excitement  took  possession 
of  her.  She  relinquished  her  secret  prayers  for  the 
sum  of  eight  shillings.  A  girlish  equivalent  of  "Eat, 
drink  and  be  merry"  would  have  expressed  her 
then. 

The  dance  was  at  seven,  and  she  went  up  to  dress, 
declaring  that  she  didn't  want  any  tea,  at  four.  Uncle 
Bill  never  took  afternoon  tea,  so  she  was  able  to 
secure  her  parcel  from  his  keeping. 

About  six  o'clock  her  aunt  came  to  her  room  with 
a  glass  of  milk.  Perhaps  the  woman's  eyes  softened  a. 


1 82  KIDDIES 

little  at  the  sight  of  such  sweet,  fresh,  restless  beauty, 
but  her  lips  kept  firm. 

"Your  frock  is  quite  long  enough,"  she  remarked  as 
she  fastened  it  behind. 

"Oh,  yes,  Aunt  Frances." 

"Your  left  stocking  is  twisted." 

"Oh!  I— I'll  put  it  right."  Hot  all  over,  Hilda 
adjusted  the  cashmere  which  concealed  the  silk. 

"Have  you  tried  your  gloves  on?" 

"Yes — yes,  thank  you.  They're  all  right.  Every- 
thing's all  right,"  the  girl  said  hurriedly,'  with  a  curi- 
ous hatred  of  herself. 

"I  do  not  care  for  the  way  you  have  arranged  your 
hair,"  Mrs.  Brash  said.  "If  you  would  learn  to  wear 
it  the  way  Martha  Small  wears  hers — but  never  mind 
now." 

At  any  other  time  Hilda  would  probably  have  re- 
torted that  Martha  Small,  being  the  possessor  of 
about  three  hairs,  could  not  wear  them  any  other  way, 
even  if  she  stood  on  her  head ;  but  now  she  only 
inquired  humbly  whether  she  might  don  her  corals. 
Mrs.  Brash,  who  did  not  object  to  corals  and  jet, 
gave  the  required  permission. 

"It  is  a  fine  clear  night,  so  you  do  not  need  a  cab 
going,"  she  said.  "Your  Uncle  William  shall  see 
you  to  the  door.  Now  drink  your  milk  and  come 
downstairs  when  you  are  ready.  I  must  see  that 
your  Uncle  Robert  gets  his  dinner  properly." 

Hilda,  though  fully  prepared,  delayed  her  descent 
until  the  last  minute,  cloaked  and  clutching  the 
velvet  bag  containing  her  slippers  and  gloves  (suedes). 
She  was  feeling  reckless  and  elated  again.  Uncle  Bill 
was  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall,  and  as  she  reached  his 
side  her  aunt  came  out  of  the  dining-room.  There 
were  some  awkward  moments  until  William  opened 
the  door.  He  and  the  girl  were  at  the  bottom  of  the 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      183 

steps  when  Mrs.  Brash  did  an  odd  and  perhaps  rather 
a  difficult  thing. 

She  said  slowly  and  distinctly:  "Your  Uncle 
Robert  and  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself  to-night" — 
and  shut  the  door. 

"That's  better!"  muttered  Uncle  Bill,  with  a 
laugh. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Hilda,  without  a  laugh. 

Beyond  the  garden  the  road  was  dark. 

"Honey,"  said  William,  in  sudden  consternation, 
"what's  the  matter?" 

With  a  sob,  Hilda  caught  his  arm. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  with  exceeding  gentleness. 

At  last,  somehow,  she  managed  to  tell  him.  "And 
oh,  Uncle  Bill,  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  ended. 

He  did  not  answer  her  all  at  once,  and  before  he 
did  so  he  drew  her  hand  close  to  his  side. 

"What  are  you  to  do,  Honey?  Why,  you're  to 
enjoy  your  dancin'-party  and  your  silk  stockin's  and 
your — your  pretty  gloves!  They're  as  good  as  paid 
for;  because,  you  see,  I've  been  wonderin'  what  I 
could  give  you  for  your  Christmas  present,  and  now 
I'll  just  give  you  the  price  of  your  fal-lals,  and  the 
fal-lals'll  be  my  present  to  you,  and  I'll  explain  to 
the  folks  at  home.  And  now  you're  not  to  weep  a 
tear,  Honey,  nor  say  a  single  word.  But  if  you  like 
to  give  me  a  kiss  when  I  give  you  the  pennies  to- 
morrow— well,  I'll  not  say  no.  For  it  was  a  shame 
that  you  shouldn't  have  silks  and  so  on,  if  your  heart 
was  set  on  them;  but  now  you've  got  them  for  your 
very  own — and  that's  the  end  of  the  story.  Aren't 
we  lucky  to  get  such  a  fine  night,  too?  And  don't 
you  hurry  away  if  they  keep  up  the  fun.  I'll  see  that 
the  cab  waits  for  you." 

She  could  do  nothing  but  squeeze  his  arm  till  they 
came  to  their  destination.  And  when  the  door  of 


184  KIDDIES 

Delight  had  closed  behind  her,  William  strolled  home- 
wards, his  hand  in  his  pocket  fingering  his  total 
assets — fourpence. 

IV 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brash  retired  to  their  chamber  at  the 
usual  hour,  though  Mrs.  Brash  intended  to  come 
downstairs  to  greet  Hilda  on  her  return.  For  the 
first  time  in  many  years  the  gas  was  not  shut  off  at 
ten-thirty.  About  that  hour,  however,  Mr.  Brash, 
who  feared  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  sleep,  came 
down  to  the  parlour  for  a  book.  He  had  not  troubled 
to  put  on  his  slippers.  As  he  crossed  the  hall  a  slight 
rattling  noise  struck  upon  his  ear.  It  was  followed 
by  the  unmistakable  chink  of  cash.  The  sounds  came 
from  the  parlour,  the  door  of  which  was  open  an 
inch  or  so.  Mr.  Brash  came  to  a  standstill,  but  the 
next  moment  he  heard  a  cough  which  he  recognised  as 
his  brother's.  He  went  silently  to  the  door  and  peeped 
through  the  narrow  opening. 

William  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  knife  in  one 
hand  and  the  mission-box  in  the  other.  On  the  cloth 
lay  a  few  pieces  of  silver  and  some  coppers.  William, 
who  was  perspiring,  inserted  the  blade  in  the  slot  of 
the  box  and  cautiously  manipulated  the  former.  At 
the  end  of  a  minute  a  coin  slipped  out.  It  was  a 
half-penny. 

"Darn  it!"  grunted  William,  "  'tis  one  o'  my  own." 

He  was  luckier  next  time,  for  a  half-crown  flopped 
on  the  table. 

"Thank  God!"  said  William  devoutly,  if  not 
piously.  "Old  Small's!  He  put  it  in  last  Saturday 
night,  takin'  care  to  let  us  see  it  first.  Now  how 
much  have  I  got?"  Adding  fourpence  from  his 
pocket  to  the  little  cluster,  he  reckoned  it  up.  "Seven- 
and-six  and  a  ha'penny — darn  it!  All  right,  little 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      185 

maid,  your  fal-lals'll  soon  be  paid  for.  Here's  luck!" 
And  in  went  the  knife. 

Out  came  a  shilling. 

"Good!"  said  William,  and  he  proceeded  to  return 
sixpence-ha'penny  to  the  box. 

Robert,  very  pale,  entered. 

"William,  what  is  this?  What  are  you  doing?" 
he  said  hoarsely. 

The  grizzled  man  was  taken  aback,  but  quickly 
recovered  himself.  He  looked  his  brother  straight  in 
the  eyes. 

"I  was  borrowing  eight  shillings,  to  be  paid  back 
by  a  shilling  a  week,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  don't 
suppose  I  would  steal,  Robert?" 

Mr.  Brash  leant  against  the  mahogany  sideboard 
and  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"You  don't  suppose  I  would  steal,  Robert?" 
William  repeated.  "My  sins  are  many,  as  you  know, 
but  you're  not  to  include  stealin'.  Don't  you  hear 
me,  Robert?" 

Robert  wet  his  lips.  "Why,"  he  said,  with  an 
effort — "why  do  you  wish  to  borrow  the  money? 
Could  you  not  have  trusted  me  so  far  as  to  ask  me 
for  it?" 

"Could  you  have  trusted  me  so  far  as  to  lend  it?" 
William  spoke  softly. 

After  a  pause — "For  what  do  you  want  the 
money?"  said  Robert,  in  a  voice  that  was  new  to  his 
brother.  For  it  held  no  superiority,  no  hardness  nor 
bitterness,  no  contempt;  only  a  half-stifled  agony  of 
appeal,  the  utterance  of  a  man  who  feels  a  poignancy 
he  cannot  name  or  even  understand.  William  was 
not  to  know  how  his  brother's  mind  had  been  troubled 
since  that  night,  a  fortnight  ago,  when  his  sovereign 
had  gone  into  the  box,  but  instinctively  he  felt  that 
a  crisis  had  come. 


1 86  KIDDIES 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"Yes — if  you'll  sit  down,  Robert,  and  promise  not  to 
think  ill  of  the  little  maid — I'll  tell  you." 

"What  has  Hilda  to  do  with  it?"  Robert  asked, 
though  somehow  he  had  thought  of  Hilda  the  instant 
he  looked  upon  the  scene  at  the  table. 

"Hilda  has  more  to  do  wi'  things  than  we  thought. 
She  still  belongs  to  you — to  us — but  'tis  easy  to  lose 
her.  Robert,  I  can't  tell  you,  if  you  don't  sit  down." 

Robert  hesitated,  then  took  the  nearest  chair.  "Go 
on,"  he  whispered. 

He  did  not  interrupt  while  William  told  the  brief 
story;  and  when  it  was  ended  he  made  no  comment. 
After  a  long  silence  he  said,  "It's  time  you  were  going 
to  fetch  her  home,"  and  got  up  to  leave  the  room. 

"You'll  not  be  hard  on  her,  Robert?"  said 
William.  "She's  had  a  bad  week — a  cruel  bad  week. 
Can't  you  believe  that?"  He  was  about  to  plead 
further,  but  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  other's  face, 
and  lo !  it  was  enough.  He  nodded  to  the  departing 
Robert,  and  returned  the  money  to  the  box.  There- 
after, with  a  new  warmth  in  his  heart,  he  set  out  to 
meet  Hilda. 

It  was  Uncle  Bill  who  was  silent  on  the  drive  home, 
for  the  girl  was  athrill  with  the  delights  of  the  even- 
ing, and  conscience  was  still  stunned  and  inert.  But 
at  last  he  got  saying  that  which  was  on  his  soul  to 
say. 

"Honey,"  he  whispered,  "do  you  trust  me?  ... 
You  do?  Sure?  Then  slip  off  your  outside  stockin's 
and  put  on  your  best  gloves.  Quick!  Your  Uncle 
Robert  knows  all  about  it — don't  be  frightened — he's 
not  angry  wi'  you — somehow  I  think  he's  sort  o' 
angry  wi'  himself — but  everything's  all  right  at  home 
— only  I  think  'twould  hurt  him  sore  if  you  tried  to 


SILK  STOCKINGS  AND  SUEDES      187 

deceive  him  to  his  very  face.  Honey,  to  please  your 
old  Uncle  Bill,  do  what  I  ask  you.  I  know  'tis  cruel 
to  startle  you  so,  but  you'll  be  a  happy  girl  in  five 
minutes.  Darn  it! — I  believe  we're  all  goin'  to  be 
happy!  There  now,  don't  worry  yourself;  just  do  it, 
Honey." 

Hilda  had  great  faith  in  Uncle  Bill,  but  dismay 
overwhelmed  her.  Nevertheless  she  acceded  to  his 
request  without  waiting  for  answers  to  her  questions. 
But  she  had  still  one  cashmere  stocking  on  when  the 
cab  drew  up  at  the  house. 

Mr.  Brash  opened  the  door. 

"I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  time,  Hilda,"  he 
said,  as  if  repeating  a  lesson.  Then  as  she  halted, 
trembling  and  fearful,  before  him,  he  added,  "We 
must  try  to — to  understand  each  other  better,  Hilda. 
Now  go  to  your  aunt,  my  dear."  Bending  stiffly,  per- 
haps timidly,  he  touched  his  lips  to  her  forehead. 

Hilda,  silk  stockings  and  suede  gloves  forgotten,  ran 
upstairs. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Brash,  as  though  speaking  to  him- 
self, "we  must  try  to  understand  each  other  better." 
He  laid  his  hand  on  his  brother's  arm  just  as  he  might 
have  done  thirty  years  before. 


XIII 
THE  GNOME 

HILARY,  being  deeply  conscientious,  as  most  little 
girls  are,  tried  very  hard  to  feel  sorry  that  her  Aunt 
Rachel  had  got  such  a  bad  headache;  but,  all  the 
same,  she  enjoyed  having  lunch  by  herself  in  the  big, 
old-fashioned  dining-room,  and  noticed  that  the  maid, 
who  brought  her  the  delicious  cold  chicken  and  an 
unusually  large  supply  of  strawberries,  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  herself  too. 

And  afterwards,  sitting  in  the  garden  with  her  doll, 
Hilary  found  it  quite  impossible  to  be  truly  miserable, 
and  soon  gave  up  stealing  pitying  glances  at  the 
blinded  window  of  her  aunt's  bedroom.  It  is  difficult 
to  be  unhappy  in  a  lovely  garden,  especially  if  you 
are  young,  as  Hilary  was,  and  believe,  as  Hilary  did, 
that  the  flowers  and  birds,  and  butterflies  and  bees, 
and  even  the  wasps,  are  all  there  to  be  happy  and  to 
wish  you  happiness.  Hilary  would  have  liked  her 
father  and  mother  to  have  been  there  also,  but  that 
morning  she  had  had  letters  from  them,  written  on 
board  the  yacht,  and  so  they  did  not  seem  so  very  far 
away  after  all.  Besides,  the  letters  had  told  her  that 
her  mother  was  ever  so  much  better,  which  was  the 
gladdest  thing  in  the  world  to  think  of  just  then. 

Somehow  Hilary  did  not  feel  lonely  in  the  garden 

with  no  one  except  her  doll  to  talk  to.    The  day  before 

she  had  felt  very  lonely,  although  her  aunt  had  been 

with  her;  but  now  and  then  grown-ups  have  a  way  of 

188 


THE  GNOME  189 

making  little  people  feel  more  solitary  than  solitude 
itself  can  do. 

Aunt  Rachel,  who  seemed  quite  old,  never  meant  to 
be  unkind,  but  she  always  meant  to  be  practical  and 
precise  and  proper,  which  at  times  is  almost  as  trying 
as  being  positively  disagreeable.  Perhaps  she  hurt 
Hilary  most  by  her  cold  unbelief  in  Fairies. 

She  shocked  the  little  girl  by  bluntly  expressing 
the  awful  opinion  that  Fairies  were  all  "stuff  and 
nonsense." 

Not  that  Hilary's  belief  was  likely  to  be  shaken. 
Her  parents  believed  in  Fairies,  else  why  had  they  so 
often  told  her  about  them?  Her  favourite  books, 
moreover,  which  she  could  almost  read,  especially  the 
passages  she  knew  by  heart,  also  told  of  Fairies  in  a 
manner  that  carried  conviction.  No;  it  was  vain  for 
Aunt  Rachel  to  deny  the  existence  of  Fairies  and 
call  them  nasty  names;  but  it  was  horrid  of  her  to 
say  that  Hilary  was  too  old  to  believe  in  them. 

Hilary,  during  her  stay  with  her  aunt  in  the  beauti- 
ful country,  had  often  wished  she  could  find  a  Fairy 
somewhere,  just  to  show  her  aunt  how  wrong  were 
her  ideas.  Hilary  did  not  greatly  care  what  sort  of 
Fairy,  although  she  would  prefer  a  "good"  one,  in 
shimmering  cobwebby  robes,  with  a  star-tipped  magic 
wand  in  her  hand.  She  did  not  deem  that  any 
Fairies  could  be  positively  bad.  Even  the  Wicked 
Fairy  in  the  "Sleeping  Beauty"  had  had  much  reason 
for  being  annoyed. 

On  this  particular  afternoon,  in  the  sunny  garden, 
Hilary  told  her  doll  a  fairy-tale  that  her  aunt  had 
once  called  "quite  absurd."  She  had  just  come  to  the 
beginning  of  the  happy  ending,  when  one  of  her  aunt's 
maids  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"Miss  Wallis  sent  me  to  tell  you,  Miss  Hilary, 
that  she  thinks  it  is  too  hot  for  you  to  go  for  a  walk 


190  KIDDIES 

this  afternoon,"  said  the  maid,  "and  she  wants  you  to 
be  sure  to  stay  in  the  garden,  but  not  to  make  a  noise, 
because  her  head  aches." 

"All  right,  Kitty,"  the  little  girl  returned.  "I 
shan't  make  a  noise." 

"I'm  cleaning  the  silver  to-day,  or  I  would  stop 
and  play  with  you,  Miss  Hilary." 

"I  could  help  you !"  said  Hilary  eagerly. 

"I'm  afraid  Miss  Wallis  wouldn't  like  that.  Shall 
I  get  you  a  book — your  nice  fairy-tale  one?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Kitty.  I'd  rather  just  think  about 
Fairies  now,"  Hilary  replied  soberly. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you  are  a  queer  child!"  said  Kitty, 
turning  away  reluctantly,  for  she  was  young,  and 
enjoyed  a  game  with  the  little  girl. 

When  she  had  gone,  Hilary  got  up  and  began  to 
walk  about  the  garden,  her  doll  having  fallen  asleep 
in  her  arms. 

It  was  a  large  garden,  and  Hilary  had  not  yet 
explored  all  the  paths.  She  thought  it  would  be 
great  fun  to  get  lost  in  the  garden,  chiefly  because  she 
would  be  quite  sure  to  be  found  by  tea-time.  Then 
she  wondered  if  there  were  any  Fairies  anywhere  in 
the  garden.  Of  course  she  did  not  expect  to  see  them 
by  daylight.  She  wondered  for  a  long  time,  but  came 
to  the  melancholy  conclusion  that  probably  Fairies 
would  not  be  seen  in  the  garden  of  a  person  who 
did  not  believe  in  them.  At  the  same  moment  she 
came  to  a  little  gateway  in  a  high  hedge. 

Hilary  had  not  previously  observed  this  gateway, 
and  the  gate  looked  as  if  it  had  not  been  used  for  a 
long  time.  But  she  managed  to  open  it,  although  the 
handle  scared  her  with  the  screech  it  made. 

She  found  herself  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  wood. 
Clasping  her  doll  a  little  tighter,  she  lingered,  gazing. 
A  narrow  footpath,  thick  with  pine-needles,  led  from 


THE  GNOME  191 

her  very  feet  away  among  the  trees;  her  eyes  could 
follow  its  course  for  some  distance  amid  the  dim 
shades  and  bright  splashes  of  sunlight.  Afar  off  it 
seemed  to  take  a  sharp  bend,  and  she  wondered  what 
might  be  round  the  corner.  She  had  never  been  so 
near  to  a  wood,  but  some  of  her  favourite  stories  were 
about  woods — and  likewise  Fairies  and  Elves,  and 
Brownies  and  Gnomes.  Already  she  began  to  people 
this  wood  with  sprites  of  her  imagining.  A  cuckoo 
called — it  was  like  a  sweet  summons;  the  pretty  path, 
too,  invited  her  tread. 

She  took  one  step  forward,  and  halted,  holding  her 
doll  still  closer — not  afraid,  but  rather  excited.  Be- 
sides, she  remembered  her  aunt.  Would  her  aunt  be 
angry? 

The  cuckoo  called  again. 

Aunt  Rachel  had  said  she  was  to  stay  in  the  garden. 
Still,  perhaps,  the  wood  was  part  of  the  garden.  She 
took  another  step  forward,  then  looked  back.  She 
could  see  nothing  of  the  house  except  its  chimneys 
above  the  shrubbery.  Aunt  Rachel  had  never  said 
she  must  not  go  into  the  wood;  and  Aunt  Rachel  had 
told  her  so  many,  oh !  so  many,  things  she  must  not 
do!  Surely  Aunt  Rachel  would  have  mentioned  the 
wood,  had  it  been  a  forbidden  place! 

Once  more  the  cuckoo  called. 

This  time  Hilary  took  several  steps  forward,  and 
immediately  the  bird  repeated  its  notes. 

Hilary  hesitated  no  longer.  If  afterward  she  should 
feel  guilty,  she  could  confess  to  her  father  and  mother, 
who  understood  things  better  than  any  one  else.  She 
would  not  tell  her  aunt  at  all.  And  she  would  only 
go  as  far  as  the  corner,  and  then  return  to  the 
garden. 

She  passed  into  the  wood,  glancing  from  side  to 
side,  upwards  and  downwards,  stepping  lightly,  as 


192  KIDDIES 

though  she  sought  to  avoid  disturbing  a  sleeping  Elf. 
At  times  she  could  see  large  spaces  of  blue  sky,  at 
others  the  merest  traces.  Now  and  then  she  looked 
behind,  and  was  not  sorry  to  discern  the  old  gate,  for 
the  adventure  was  making  her  young  heart  beat  faster, 
her  breath  come  quicker. 

How  still  it  was!  There  was  no  sound  at  all. 
Even  the  cuckoo  had  fallen  silent.  Perhaps  the 
cuckoo,  she  thought,  was  now  satisfied  because  she 
had  entered  the  wood — there  was  no  need  for  him  to 
call  longer.  She  had  never  seen  a  cuckoo;  she  would 
like  very  much  to  spy  one.  Perhaps 

Hilary  looked  behind  her  once  more;  but  this  time 
the  garden-gate  was  not  to  be  seen.  Evidently  she 
had  turned  the  corner  without  noticing  that  it  was  a 
corner.  She  stopped  with  the  intention  of  going  back, 
but  in  the  same  moment,  a  patch  of  green,  not  very  far 
ahead,  attracted  her.  It  was  a  bright  patch,  so  vivid, 
indeed,  that  it  seemed  to  be  set  in  darkness,  so  lovely 
that  Hilary  thought  of  dancing  Fairies — in  the  moon- 
light, of  course.  Could  it  be  that  she  would  find  a 
Fairy-ring  there? 

She  went  towards  it  slowly,  yet  eagerly.  Uncon- 
sciously she  began  to  step  on  tiptoe,  holding  her  breath. 
By  this  time  her  mind  was  all  in  Fairyland. 

On  the  edge  of  the  bright  patch  stood  a  great  tree. 
Hilary  drew  level  with  it,  then  halted  with  a  gasp. 

There  was  something — some  one — lying  on  the 
grass,  almost  at  her  feet.  In  some  ways  it  was  like  a 
man,  thought  Hilary,  but  so  short  and  squat.  It  was 
lying  with  its  hands  supporting  its  chin,  peering  into 
a  dusky  hollow  of  the  wood.  It  was  clothed  in  a 
rather  unpleasing  shade  of  brown;  its  cap,  of  a  shape 
unfamiliar  to  Hilary's  eyes,  and  its  soft  shirt-collar 
were  brown  also.  It  had  thick  black  hair;  and  its 
face,  which  looked  old  and  wizened,  was  dark-hued 


THE  GNOME  193 

and  ugly — big  nose,  big  ears,  big  mouth,  big  teeth. 
She  could  not  see  its  eyes. 

Fascinated,  Hilary  gazed  at  the  recumbent  figure. 
She  wanted  to  run  away,  but  could  not.  And  all  at 
once  a  wondrous  idea  made  her  heart  leap. 

"Oh !"  she  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

"Tut!  Now  you've  frightened  it,"  said  the  strange 
being,  without  turning  its  head. 

"Oh!"  cried  Hilary  again,  and  dropped  her  doll. 
"Oh!"  she  said  a  third  time. 

"Never  mind.  Perhaps  it  will  come  back  again. 
Keep  still,  if  you  want  to  see  it." 

The  being  spoke  ordinary  language,  but,  Hilary 
noticed,  in  a  queer  croaking  voice. 

She  did  not  know  what  it  was  talking  about,  but 
she  kept  stiller  than  ever  she  had  done  in  her  life. 

"Sh!"  whispered  the  being  at  last. 

"Oh,  what?"  said  Hilary  aloud. 

"Tut!      You've    frightened   it   again." 

"What?" 

"A  squirrel,  of  course!  Weren't  you  watching  it? 
I  thought  you  were,  when  you  came  on  tiptoe."  This 
time  the  speaker  turned.  "Oh,  I  see!"  he  went  on. 
"You  are  frightened  yourself.  Well,  you  needn't  be. 
I  shan't  eat  you,  little  girl."  And  he  sighed  so  sadly 
that  Hilary's  fear  diminished. 

"I — I'm  not  really  frightened,"  she  whispered. 
"I'm  sorry  I  frightened  your  squirrel,  Mr. — Brownie." 

"Eh,  what?" 

"I  meant  to  say — Mr.  Gnome,"  she  stammered. 
"Oh,  aren't  you  a  Gnome,  please?" 

At  this  the  strange  being  gave  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!"  he  cried.  "Of  course  I'm  a  Gnome! 
Why,  certainly!  Pray,  how  did  you  guess  it,  little 
girl?" 


194  KIDDIES 

"I  just  guessed  it,"  replied  Hilary,  satisfaction  in 
her  cleverness  putting  her  more  at  ease.  "You  see, 
I've  read  about  Gnomes,  and  father  and  mother  have 
told  me  lots  about  them." 

"And  aren't  you  afraid  of — er — Gnomes?" 

"N-n-no." 

"Sure?" 

"Not  now,  Mr.  Gnome." 

He  smiled.  And  Hilary  saw  his  eyes  clearly,  and 
forgot  his  mouth. 

"Then,  if  you  are  not  afraid,"  he  said,  "come  and 
sit  beside  me  for  a  little  while,  and  watch  for  the 
squirrel." 

Hilary  hung  back. 

"Ah,  you  are  afraid,  little  girl!" 

He  looked  so  disappointed  that,  after  picking  up 
her  doll,  she  went  cautiously  towards  him. 

"Father  says  that  Gnomes  would  not  hurt  any  one," 
she  remarked  shyly. 

"I  am  obliged  to  your  father,"  he  returned.  "Here 
is  a  nice  bit  of  grass  for  you ;  and  if  we  keep  quiet,  we 
may  see  the  squirrel  again." 

"Please,"  said  Hilary,  after  what  seemed  to  her 
an  exceedingly  long  silence,  during  which  she  noticed 
that  his  face  was  not  so  old  as  she  had  first  thought — 
"please,  won't  you  tell  me  about  Gnomes?" 

"About  Gnomes?  What  shall  I  tell  you?"  He 
looked  amused  in  a  sad  way.  "Suppose  you  ask  me 
questions,  and  I'll  try  to  answer  them.  But  you  are 
a  Fairj',  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Hilary,  feeling  pleased  all  the 
same.  "I'm  just  a  little  girl.  My  name  is  Hilary 
Malory  Steele,  and  I'm  living  with  my  Aunt  Rachel 
in  the  house  you  .can't  see  from  here,  because  father 
and  mother  are  away  on  the  yacht.  Mother  has  been 
so  ill  all  winter,  but  she  is  almost  better  now.  Have 


THE  GNOME  195 

you  got  a  name,  or  do  you  wish  me  to  call  you  just 
Mr.  Gnome?" 

"If  you  please.  We  Gnomes  have  not  got  pretty 
names  like  you,  Miss  Steele." 

"But  I'm  always  called  Hilary." 

"Miss  Hilary,  then." 

"Just  Hilary.  Now  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion, Mr.  Gnome.  How  did  you  get  here?" 

"Here?    I  didn't  know  I  was  trespassing." 

"I  don't  know  that  word.  Is  it  a  Gnome  word? 
But,  please,  how  did  you  get  here  when  the  sun  was 
shining,  and  when  Gnomes  should  be  under  the 
ground  or  hiding  in  the  mountains?" 

"Ah,  well,  let  me  see,  now.     How  did  I  get  here?" 

He  appeared  to  think  hard. 

"Did  the  King  of  the  Gnomes  allow  you  out  for  a 
treat?" 

"Yes,  that's  it.  You  see,  we  Gnomes  get  certain 
holidays  every  year " 

"That  isn't  in  the  book,  Mr.  Gnome." 

"But,  you  see,"  he  replied  hurriedly,  "no  book  is 
always  correct.  The  cleverest  writing  people  forget 
something  now  and  then.  Besides,  you  can't  expect 
mere  human  people  to  know  everything  about  Gnomes, 
can  you?" 

"No,"  Hilary  slowly  admitted.  "Please  go  on,  Mr. 
Gnome." 

"Well,  little  girl,  the  King  said  I  might  have  ten 
days'  holiday;  and  that's  how  I  came  here.  And,  of 
course,"  he  went  on  quickly,  "I  had  to  get  these 
human  clothes  for  the  occasion.  The  clothes  we  wear 
— er — underground  are  different,  you  know." 

"I  know.  You  wear  leather  clothes.  They  must 
be  uncomfy.  Do  you  like  being  here,  Mr.  Gnome?" 

"Very  much." 


196  KIDDIES 

"Do  you  go  under  the  ground  at  night,  or  stay  and 
play  with  the  other  Gnomes  when  they  come  up  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  daren't  answer  that  question." 

"Would  the  King  be  angry?" 

"Very  likely." 

"What  do  you  do  when  you  are  not  having  holi- 
days?" 

"Work." 

"But  what  do  you  work  at?" 

"Quill-driving,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"What  is  that,  Mr.  Gnome?" 

"Nothing  very  fine,  Miss  Hilary,  but  better  than 
doing  nothing." 

"Do  all  Gnomes  do  it?" 

"Oh,  no!  But  a  good  many  do.  By  the  bye,  you 
must  not  tell  anybody  that  I'm  a  Gnome.  It's  one 
of  the  laws  that  we  have  to  look  as  little  like  Gnomes 
as  possible  during  our  holidays.  You  see,  I  have 
even  learned  your  language." 

"But  you  are  very  like  a  Gnome,  Mr.  Gnome.  I 
knew  you  at  once." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"So  you  did,  little  girl — so  you  did." 

"But  you  don't  mind  my  knowing?"  she  said  gently. 
"I  promise  not  to  tell  anybody,  Mr.  Gnome." 

"Thank  you !  No,  I  don't  mind  your  knowing. 
But  your  aunt  might  not  like  your  speaking  to  a — 
Gnome." 

"Oh!"  cried  Hilary,  jumping  up.  "I  must  run 
home." 

"Must  you  go?" 

Hilary  nodded  regretfully. 

"And  you've  told  me  so  little  about  Gnomes." 

"I  could  tell  you  more  if But  I've  got  only 

three  days  of  my  holiday  left,  and  I  don't  suppose  I'll 
see  you  again  before  I  go." 


THE  GNOME  197 

"Under  the  ground.  Poor  Mr.  Gnome!  Perhaps 
I  could  come  here  again — if  Aunt  Rachel  would  have 
another  headache.  But  I'm  afraid  she  won't." 

Mr.  Gnome  smiled. 

"Well,  I  come  here  every  afternoon,"  he  said.  "I 
should  like  to  see  you  once  more,  before  I  go  under 
the  ground,  little  girl.  Will  you  shake  hands  with  me 
now?" 

Hilary  did  so,  noticing  that  his  fingers  were  very 
long  and  thin. 

"But  you  must  not  get  into  trouble  by  staying  too 
long  with  me.  Good-bye,  Miss  Hilary!" 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Gnome!  I'll  try  to  come  another 
day." 

She  ran  down  the  path,  stopping  once  to  wave  her 
hand  to  him. 

It  was  difficult  to  keep  her  wonderful  secret  that 
night. 

The  next  afternoon  she  was  taken  by  Miss  Wallis 
for  a  dreadfully  long,  dull  drive;  but  the  next  again 
she  found  an  opportunity,  thanks  to  visitors,  to  slip 
away  to  the  wood. 

Sure  enough,  Mr.  Gnome  was  there  in  the  self-same 
spot,  and  appeared  so  glad  to  see  her  that  her  shyness 
vanished  at  once.  He  seemed  in  good  spirits  and  told 
her  far  more  about  Gnomes,  without  her  asking,  than 
ever  she  had  heard  or  imagined.  Some  of  the  things 
he  told  her  were  not  in  agreement  with  the  book; 
but,  as  Mr.  Gnome  pointed  out,  there  was  nothing 
surprising  in  a  Gnome  knowing  more  about  his  own 
people  than  a  mere  human  being  could  ever  hope  to 
discover. 

When  he  had  talked  of  Gnomes  for  half  an  hour  or 
so,  he  suddenly  changed  the  subject  by  asking  her  if 
she  liked  sweets,  at  the  same  time  producing  a  packet 
pf  Russian  toffee. 


ig8  KIDDIES 

Hilary  was  a  trifle  disappointed  that  the  dainty, 
though  desirable,  was  so  familiar.  After  thanking  him 
prettily,  she  said : 

"Do  Gnomes  have  sweets  of  their  own — different 
from  these?" 

"No;  they  haven't  any  sweets,  Hilary.  They 
haven't  any  money  to  buy  sweets  with,  or  anything 
else  that's  nice." 

"No  money?" 

"No  money." 

Hilary,  at  considerable  risk,  swallowed  the  cake  of 
toffee  she  was  just  beginning  to  enjoy,  and  regarded 
Mr.  Gnome  inquiringly,  if  not  suspiciously. 

"How  did  you  buy  the  toffee,  then,  if  you  have  no 
money?" 

Mr.  Gnome's  dark,  ugly  face  reddened.  He 
laughed  feebly. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  toffee,  Mr.  Gnome?" 
demanded  Hilary. 

"In  a  little  shop,  kept  by  an  old  woman,  in  the 
village.  I  got  it  last  night." 

"When  she  was  asleep?  Oh,  Mr.  Gnome,  did 
you — did  you  steal  it?" 

Mr.  Gnome  tried  to  smile,  but  the  child's  grey  eyes 
were  too  serious. 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  know  any  better,  but  it  was 
very  naughty  of  you,  Mr.  Gnome,"  she  said  at  last, 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  "Oh,  fancy  stealing 
toffee  from  an  old  woman  when  she  was  asleep ! 
Aren't  you  ashamed?" 

"But  you  must  remember  I'm  only  a  Gnome,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes;  that  does  make  some  difference,  But,  oh, 
how  could  you?  And  oh!"  (her  eyes  opened  their 
widest),  "you've  got  a  watch  and  chain,  and  boots 
and  stockings,  and  clothes  and  a  collar"  (Mr.  Gnome 


THE  GNOME  199 

had  on  a  white  one  now)  "and  a  tie!  How  could  you 
get  all  these  things  when  you  had  no  money?" 

Mr.  Gnome  was  now  in  a  fearful  tangle  of  his  own 
making. 

"How,  indeed?"  he  murmured  helplessly.  "Per- 
haps they  were  given  to  me  as  presents,  Hilary." 

"Aren't  you  sure?" 

"Not  quite.  It's  rather  difficult  for  a  Gnome  to 
be  sure  of  anything,  you  know." 

Hilary  wagged  her  head  till  her  dark  curls  danced. 

"Who  gave  you  your  watch  and  chain?  Does 
your  watch  have  a  key,  or  just  a  little  thing  for  turn- 
ing round?" 

"It  has  a  key.  Would  you  like  to  see  me  wind  it, 
Hilary?" 

"Yes — oh,  no!  You  haven't  told  me  who  gave 
you  your  watch  and  chain,"  she  said  severely. 

"What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  had  stolen 
them,  like  the  toffee?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Let  us  assume  that  I  stole  them." 

"Assume!  That's  surely  a  Gnome  word.  What 
does  it  mean?" 

"Suppose  I  stole  them." 

"But  did  you?" 

Mr.  Gnome  was  silent.  He  hardly  knew  what  to 
say. 

"It  isn't  so  bad  to  be  naughty — when  you  con- 
fess," urged  Hilary,  not  unkindly. 

"Gnomes  hardly  ever  confess." 

"Oh!  That's  dreadful!  If  I  didn't  confess  often, 
I'd  burst.  You  mustn't  laugh,  Mr.  Gnome.  I'm 
so  sorry  for  you ;  and  I'm  so  sorry  for  the  old  woman  in 
the  village.  Oh,  how  could  you  steal  her  toffee  when 
she  was  asleep?  Did  you  get  in  through  the  key- 
hole or  down  the  chimney?" 


200  KIDDIES 

Her  frown  gave  place  to  an  expression  of  pure 
curiosity. 

"I  don't  remember.  Are  you  sorry  I'm  a  Gnome, 
little  girl?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  answered  quickly.  "I'm  glad  you 
are  a  Gnome,  Mr.  Gnome." 

He  sighed. 

"But  I  wish  you  could  behave  better." 

He  sighed  again. 

"Are  you  sorry?"  she  inquired,  gently. 

"Yes,  I'm  sorry,  Hilary." 

After  some  thought,  she  said  softly: 

"Then  I  mustn't  scold  you  any  more.  But  you 
must  try  hard  to  be  a  better  Gnome." 

She  fumbled  in  her  pocket,  and  fished  out  a  tiny 
purse.  "I  have  some  money  that  father  gave  me.  It 
won't  pay  for  all  the  things  you've  got,  Mr.  Gnome, 
but  it  will  pay  for  the  toffee  (I  know  that  sort  of 
toffee  costs  sixpence),  and  you  can  leave  the  money 
in  the  shop  when  the  poor  old  woman  is  sleeping. 
You  needn't  confess  to  her,  since  you've  confessed  to 
me.  Here,  Mr.  Gnome  I  Take  it,  please." 

She  held  out  the  sixpence. 

He  drew  back. 

"Oh,  I  can't  take  your  money,  little  girl  ?" 

"But  you  must,  Mr.  Gnome." 

Presently,  to  save  her  from  tears,  he  took  the  coin, 
meaning  to  return  it  somehow. 

"And  now,"  said  Hilary,  brightening — "now  we 
can  eat  up  the  toffee!" 

Which    she   did. 

When  it  was  finished,  she  remembered  her  aunt. 

"I'm  going  away  to-morrow,"  he  was  saying.  "I 
wish  we  had  met  sooner." 

"So  do  I.     I  like  you,  Mr.  Gnome,  though  you  are 


THE  GNOME  201 

not  very  good.  But  then  you  don't  know  any  better. 
Do  you  go  under  when  you  go  away  from  here?" 

"Yes— under." 

"Under  this  very  place?" 

"No;  far  from  here.  But  I'll  be  here  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

Hilary  gave  him  her  small  hand. 

"I'll  try  to  come,  Mr.  Gnome.  You  never  finished 
the  story  about  the  Gnome  that  fell  in  love  with  a 
Fairy." 

"Ah,  that's  a  long  story,  because,  Hilary,  the  Gnome 
never  fell  out  of  love  with  the  Fairy." 

"But  they  lived  happily,  ever  after?" 

He  smiled  almost  tenderly. 

"At  any  rate,  the  Fairy  made  the  Gnome  happier 
than  he  had  ever  been  before.  Good-bye,  little  girl." 

Hilary  ran  till  she  saw  the  garden-gate.  Then  she 
went  slowly,  and  hugged  her  doll.  She  could  not  tell 
why,  but  there  was  a  lump  in  her  throat  that  really 
hurt  her. 

The  next  afternoon  rain  fell  heavily.  Miss  Wallis 
had  to  go  out,  and  came  home  with  a  touch  of 
rheumatism,  which  made  her  cross.  "What  are  you 
brooding  over,  child?"  she  exclaimed,  a  little  while 
before  Hilary's  bed-time. 

"I'm  reading,  Aunt  Rachel,"  corrected  Hilary. 

"That  Fairy  nonsense  again?" 

"I'm  reading  about  a  Gnome,  Aunt  Rachel." 

"Rubbish!" 

The  little  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"There  are  Gnomes!"  she  sobbed. 

"Nonsense!" 

Hilary  opened  her  mouth,  and  then  shut  it  tightly. 
She  would  keep  the  secret. 

In  her  white  bed  that  night  she  wept  for  the  poor 
Gnome  who  had  got  to  go  under. 


202  KIDDIES 

She  could  not  resist  going  to  the  wood  on  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon,  although  in  order  to  get  away  she 
had  to  dodge  her  aunt  round  the  garden.  She  wanted 
just  to  see  where  the  Gnome  had  lain.  She  would  not 
wait  a  minute.  But  the  Gnome  was  there,  on  the 
patch  of  vivid  green. 

"The  King  has  allowed  me  to  stay  for  one  after- 
noon extra,"  he  explained.  "I  go  under  to-night." 

"What  a  nice  King!"  she  remarked,  delighted  to 
see  Mr.  Gnome  once  more. 

But  somehow  he  proved  a  dull  companion.  To  get 
him  to  talk  she  had  to  ask  many  questions,  and  some- 
times he  told  her  things  about  Gnomes  which  she  could 
not  possibly  accept  as  true. 

And  when  she  gave  him  the  bunch  of  pansies  she  had 
picked  in  the  garden  for  her  doll,  he  thanked  her  in  a 
way  that  made  her  feel  miserable. 

"Are  you  sorry  you  are  going  away  under,  Mr. 
Gnome?" 

"Very  sorry.    Are  you  a  little  sorry,  little  girl?" 

"I  was  sorry  last  night." 

"Not  to-day?" 

"Are  you  going  to  try  to  be  a  good  Gnome?"  she 
asked,  after  a  moment's  consideration. 

"Yes." 

He  fell  silent,  his  eyes  on  the  dusky  hollow.  He 
did  indeed  look  sorry,  dreadfully  sorry,  she  thought. 

"Dear  Mr.  Gnome,"  she  said,  impulsively,  "I  wish 
you  weren't  going  away.  I  wish  I  could  see  you 
every  day." 

"Dear,  kind  little  girl!"  he  murmured. 

The  faint  sound  of  a  bell  reached  her  ears.  It  was 
the  summons  to  tea,  rung  at  the  open  door  of  her 
aunt's  house. 

"Oh,  I  must  run  home  fast!"  she  said,  quickly  ris- 
ing. "Good-bye,  Mr.  Gnome.  I  hope  you  won't  be 


THE  GNOME  203 

very  unhappy  where  you  are  going.  Good-bye!  I'm 
so  glad  you  are  a  Gnome.  I'll  tell  father  and  mother 
all  about  you  when  they  come  home  next  week." 

He  smiled  resignedly. 

"Good-bye,  dear  little  Hilary." 

He  did  not  get  up,  not  because  he  was  rude,  but 
because  he  was  sensitive. 

She  took  a  couple  of  steps  from  him — and  came 
back. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  kiss  you,  Mr.  Gnome?" 

"If  you  would,  Hilary." 

Soon  she  was  out  of  his  sight. 

Two  mornings  later,  the  post  brought  Hilary  a 
beautiful  book  of  fairy-tales.  Her  own  name  was  very 
neatly  written  upon  the  fly-leaf,  but  nothing  else. 

The  dwarf  clambered  upon  the  high  office-stool,  and 
unlocked  his  desk. 

"Had  a  good  holiday,  Morgan?"  inquired  his  neigh- 
bour clerk,  wondering  what  sort  of  holiday  such  a 
poor,  misshapen,  lonely  chap  could  possibly  have. 

"Very  good  indeed,  Francis,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 

Towards  the  afternoon  his  neighbour  jocularly  re- 
marked : 

"Feeling  it  a  bit  slow  after  your  holiday,  Morgan? 
That's  the  tenth  time  within  the  hour  you've  looked  at 
your  watch!" 

"Perhaps  I  do  feel  it  a  bit  slow,  Francis." 

Morgan,  however,  had  not  been  looking  at  his 
watch,  but  at  a  sixpence  attached  to  the  ring  of  it. 


XIV 
FOR  A  GOOD  BOY 


"AwFu'  little  news  in  the  paper,"  remarked  John 
Robinson  to  his  wife,  who  had  been  in  one  of  her  silent 
moods  since  tea-time. 

"I  wisht  Macgreegor  was  in."  Lizzie  lifted  her 
eyes  from  the  pinafore  she  was  repairing  to  the  clock. 
"It's  time  he  was  in  his  bed,  an'  he's  got  a'  his  lessons 
to  learn  for  the  morn."  She  turned  to  her  man,  shirt- 
sleeved  and  taking  his  ease  by  the  kitchen  hearth.  "It'll 
no'  dae,  John.  Ye'll  ha'e  to  speak  to  him  serious-like  ; 

an'  if  speakin'  doesna  gar  him  improve,  ye'll  jist  ha'e 
. » 

"Aw,  the  wean's  fine,  Lizzie."  John  smiled, 
dropped  the  paper  and  took  out  his  pipe. 

"He  isna  fine !  He  gets  waur  every  day.  An'  it's 
his  fayther's  fau't.  He  thinks  he  can  get  daein'  ony- 
thing  he  likes.  I  tell  ye,  he's  got  to  be  checkit,  an'  if 
you're  no'  gaun  to  dae  yer  duty " 

"Weel,  weel,  I'll  gi'e  him  a  word  o'  comfort  when 
he  comes  in,  wife,"  said  John,  between  puffs.  "But 
it's  a  fine  nicht  for  playin'  ootbye,  an'  I  mind  when  I 
was  a  wean  masel' " 

"That's  easy  mindit,  for  ye've  never  been  onything 
else!" 

At  this  Mr.  Robinson  laughed  heartily.  "Aweel, 
ye've  wisdom  for  the  twa  o'  us,  woman."  Becoming 
204 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  205 

graver — "Wud  ye  like  me  to  gang  oot  an'  seek  Mac- 
greegor?" 

Ere  Lizzie  could  reply,  the  bell  tinkled.  "That'll 
be  Mrs.  McOstrich.  I  promised  to  lend  her  the  bew 
(blue)  vases  an'  twa-three  tidies  for  her  pairty  the 
morn's  nicht,"  she  said,  rising. 

"I  thocht  the  party  wasna  till  next  week." 

"So  it  was.  But  an  auld  aunt  o'  Mistress  McOs- 
trich was  ta'en  badly  yesterday,  an'  Mistress  McOs- 
trich's  thocht  she'd  better  hurry  on  the  pairty  in  case 

onything  serious  happened Whisht,  man !  It's 

naething  to  laugh  at."  Lizzie  disappeared,  and  pres- 
ently showed  in  Mrs.  McOstrich,  the  wife  of  a  baker 
in  the  vicinity,  a  weary-looking,  elderly,  little  woman. 
She  carried  a  large  basket. 

"Fine  nicht,  mistress,"  said  John,  pleasantly,  get- 
ting up  and  nodding.  "An'  hoo's  the  guidman  the 
nicht?" 

"Aw,  thenk  ye,"  replied  Mrs.  McOstrich,  in  melan- 
choly tones,  "he's  jist  aboot  his  usual.  He  gets  that 
wearit  efter  he's  had  his  tea,  he  wouldna  heed  an 
earthquake."  She  turned  to  her  hostess.  "It's  rael 
kind  o'  ye,  Mistress  Robi'son,  to  lend  me  yer  maist  gor- 
geous ornaments,  an'  I'll  tak'  terrible  guid  care  o' 
them " 

"Will  ye  no  tak'  aff  yer  shawl  an'  sit  doon?"  said 
Lizzie  kindly. 

"Na,  na,  I  daurna  bide,  thenk  ye  a'  the  same.  Ye 
see,  ma  man's  that  wearit,  an'  he'll  be  wantin'  to  gang 
til  his  bed."  Brightening  for  a  moment — "Yer  guid- 
sister  Mistress  Purdie's  comin'  the  morn's  nicht!" 

"Oh,  is  she?"  murmured  Lizzie,  who  found  it  hard 
to  keep  friends  with  her  moneyed  sister-in-law. 

"That'll  be  a  cookie  extra!"  said  John,  and  guf- 
fawed. 

"John!"  exclaimed  his  wife. 


206  KIDDIES 

"Oh,  let  yer  man  ha'e  his  bit  joke,"  sighed  the  vis- 
itor. "Ma  man  hasna  made  a  joke  for  seeven-an'- 
twinty  year — no*  since  he  tell't  me  I  was  like  a  giraffe. 
'Deed,  it's  nae  fun  bein'  a  baker,  an'  it's  less  bein'  mair- 
rit  on  yin.  If  folk  thocht  what  it  meant  to  be  mair- 
rit  on  a  baker,  their  mornin'  rolls  wud  choke  them. 
Mistress  Purdie's  unco  lucky  to  be  mairrit  on  a  grocer. 
It's  wonderfu'  hoo  folk  in  the  grocery  trade  flee  up  in 
the  world  nooadays.  Ma  man's  aye  wishin'  he  was  a 
grocer — espaycially  at  three  o'clock  on  a  cauld  frosty 
mornin'.  Oh,  dear!  I  never  seen  a  man  like  him  for 
sleepin'!  An'  whiles  he  has  the  maist  terrible  bad 
dreams.  The  ither  nicht,  he  dreamed  he  was  a  cake  o" 
gingerbread  that  wudna  rise,  an'  his  struggles  was 
something  awfu'." 

"D'ye  tell  me  that?"  said  Lizzie  sympathetically, 
while  John  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth.  "But  could 
he  no'  change  to  the  grocery  trade  ?" 

Mrs.  McOstrich  wagged  her  beshawled  grey  head. 
"Na,  na.  It's  ower  late  noo.  The  Ethiopian  canna 
change  his  spots,  nor " 

"There's  Macgreegor!"  cried  John,  going  to  the 
door  in  response  to  a  knock. 

When  father  and  son  appeared,  Mrs.  McOstrich 
was  packing  the  borrowed  ornaments  in  her  basket  and 
profusely  thanking  the  lender. 

"Here's  his  lordship!"  John  announced  proudly. 

"Macgreegor,"  said  Lizzie,  "what  d'ye  mean,  stop- 
pin'  ootbye  till  this  time  o'  nicht?  I've  a  guid  mind 

i-ru___" 

Mrs.  McOstrich  gently  interposed.  "Aw,  the  wee 
man!  D'ye  no'  ken  me?" 

"Fine!  Ye're  Mistress  McOstrich.  I'm  comin'  to  yer 
pairty  the  morn's  nicht.  Ha'e  ye  got  our  bew  vases  there? 

"Macgreegor!"  Lizzie  whispered  warningly. 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  207 

The  boy,  on  the  safe  side  of  his  father,  continued: 

"I  like  your  pairties.  Ye've  aye  plenty  pastries.  I 
wisht  ma  paw  was  a  baker." 

"Whisht!"  cried  his  mother.  "If  ye  canna  behave 
yersel',  ye'll  no'  get  to  the  pairty " 

"Toots,  Lizzie!  the  wean's  fine,"  said  John. 

Thus  encouraged,  Macgregor  proceeded:  "I'm 
gaun  to  ha'e  a  pairty,  tae,  on  Hogmanay.  Will  ye 
come,  Mistress?" 

Curbing  herself  Lizzie  said  quietly :  "Never  heed  him, 
Mistress  McOstrich.  He's  gaun  to  ha'e  nae  pairty." 

Macgregor  met  his  mother's  eyes.  "But  paw  said 
I  was,"  he  said,  speaking  as  one  who  knows  he  is  in 
the  right.  He  turned  to  his  father.  "Did  ye  no',  paw?" 

There  was  a  pause  ere  Mr.  Robinson  said,  rather 
sheepishly:  "Let  him  ha'e  his  pairty,  Lizzie.  Jist 
twa-three  o'  his  wee  frien's,  ye  ken." 

"I  never  heard  sich  nonsense!"  said  Lizzie.  "Get 
yer  lesson  book,  laddie,  an'  learn " 

Mrs.  McOstrich's  sad  voice  came  in.  "It  wud  be 
rael  nice  for  the  laddie  to  ha'e  a  pairty,  Mistress 
Robi'son." 

"Na,  na!  He  canna  ha'e  a  pairty,"  said  Lizzie,  in 
a  tone  of  finality. 

"But,"  said  Macgregor,  "I've  askit  Wullie  Thom- 
son, an'  Peter  Ross,  an'  Jessie  Mary " 

"Aweel,  ye  had  nae  business  to  ask  onybody." 

Awkwardly,  John  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"It's  me  that's  to  blame,  Lizzie.  I  was  gaun  to 
speak  to  ye  aboot  it  when — when  I  got  a  chance,"  he 
explained  haltingly. 

After  all,  Lizzie  was  not  the  woman  to  abash  her 
good  man  before  a  third  person. 

"Weel,  we'll  see  aboot  it,"  she  said  at  last,  kindly 
enough.  "Noo,  laddie,  awa'  an'  get  yer  book.  John, 
try  if  ye  cannot  help  him  wi'  his  lesson^" 


ao8  KIDDIES 

"  'Deed,  ay,  Lizzie,  I'll  dae  that,"  quoth  Mr.  Robin- 
son, and  he  and  Macgregor  moved  with  relieved  coun- 
tenances to  the  fireside. 

"It's  a'  richt — eh,  paw?"  whispered  the  boy. 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  John,  grinning.  "But  we'll  pey 
attention  to  yer  lesson  in  the  meantime,  ma  mannie." 

Said  Lizzie  to  Mrs.  McOstrich:  "Ye  maun  excuse 
Macgreegor;  he  means  weel." 

"'Deed,  ay;  'deed,  ay,"  the  baker's  spouse  replied; 
"a*  weans  means  weel,  an'  whiles  I  think  they  wud 
dae  weel,  if  it  wasna  for  us  auld  yins."  With  which 
deplorable  heresy  she  took  her  departure,  just  pausing 
at  the  door  to  assure  Macgregor  that  there  would  be 
a  sufficiency  of  pastry  on  the  following  evening. 

Mrs.  Robinson,  having  succeeded  in  stemming  the 
torrent  of  gratitude  which  poured  forth  afresh  at  the 
outer  door,  bade  the  borrower  of  vases  a  friendly  good- 
night, and  then  paid  a  brief  visit  to  the  room  wherein 
her  little  daughter  was  sleeping.  On  her  return  to 
the  kitchen  she  surprised  father  and  son  in  a  pleasant 
discussion  on  the  subject  of  the  latter's  prospective 
party.  Her  expression  hardened. 

"John!  Ha'e  ye  nae  sense?  See  the  time,  and 
Macgreegor's  lessons  no'  learnt  yet!  .  .  .  Macgreegor, 
bring  me  the  book,  an'  I'll  hear  ye  yer  spellin'."  She 
seated  herself  at  the  table.  "I  tell  ye,  Macgreegor, 
if  ye  dinna  pey  attention  to  yer  lessons,  ye'll  never 
grow  up  to  be  a  Lord  Provost." 

"I'm  no'  wantin'  to  be  a  Lord  Provost,  maw.  I 
want  to  be  a  plumber." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Robinson  chuckled,  and,  hearing 
the  same,  the  boy  grinned. 

Happily  for  them  both,  and  perhaps  for  Lizzie  also, 
the  door-bell  rang  again. 

"I'll  gang,  Lizzie."  John  jumped  up  and  hurried 
out. 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  209 

"Noo,  laddie,"  said  Lizzie,  restraining  herself,  "spell 
misery" 

"Ye're  lookin'  at  the  wrang  page,  maw.  That  was 
in  yesterday's  lesson." 

Lizzie  cleared  her  throat.     "Spell  dungeon." 

"D  ...  U  ...  N " 

"Tak'  yer  time.  Spell  it  in  bits.  Dun-geon. 
Dun?" 

"D  ...  U  ...  N." 

"Geon." 

"J  ...  O  ...  H  ...  N Geon Dungeon!"  said 

Macgregor  smartly. 

Lizzie  groaned.  "Tak'  the  book  an'  learn  it.  An* 
if  ye  canna  say  it " 

The  door  was  pushed  open,  and  John's  voice  cried: 
"He  thocht  he  wud  surprise  ye." 

Lizzie  turned.     "Fayther!" 

"Gran'paw  Purdie,"  Macgregor  shouted,  dropping 
his  book  and  running  to  the  old  man. 

"Weel,  ma  dochter,  an'  hoo's  a'  wi'  ye,"  said  Mr. 
Purdie  heartily.  "An'  ma  auld  frien'  Macgreegor!" 
He  took  the  youngster's  hand.  "I  was  feart  ye  wud 
be  awa'  to  yer  bed." 

"No'  likely!" 

"Macgreegor,"  his  mother  interposed,  "pick  up  yer 
book,  an'  awa'  ben  aside  wee  Jeanie  an'  learn  yer  les- 
sons. But  see  an'  no'  wauken  her." 

"But  I  want  to  bide " 

"Preserve  us!"  ejaculated  the  old  man,  taking  the 
chair  proffered  by  his  son-in-law.  "Is  the  laddie  no' 
feenished  wi'  his  lessons?  I  doobt  he's  bein'  ower  hard 
wrought.  I'm  no'  agreein'  wi'  weans  ha'ein'  ower 
mony  lessons  to  learn  at  nicht." 

"Macgreegor  didna  come  in  when  he  should  ha'e 
come  in,"  said  Lizzie.  "It's  a'  his  ain  fau't  that  he's 
no'  feenished  wi'  his  lessons," 


210  KIDDIES 

"Och,  Lizzie,  never  heed  aboot  that,"  said  John, 
with  an  insinuating  glance  at  his  wife.  "The  ween's 
fine.  An'  he'll  be  gettin'  his  holidays  in  twa-three 
days." 

"I'm  gaun  to  ha'e  a  pairty  on  Hogmanay,  gran'- 
paw,"  the  boy  announced.  "Will  ye  come?" 

"Dae  what  I  bid  ye,  Macgreegor,"  his  mother  com- 
manded. 

"Maybe,"  Mr.  Purdie  mildly  interrupted — "maybe 
he  wudna  tak'  very  lang  to  learn  his  lessons." 

Lizzie  was  tired  that  night;  her  wrongs  got  the  bet- 
ter of  her.  "It's  no'  jist  his  lessons,  fayther,"  she 
said.  "It's  his  disobedience.  Ay,  an'  he's  gettin'  that 
impiddent." 

"I'm  no'  impiddent,  maw,"  her  son  protested.  "I'm 
no'  impiddent — excep'  to  Aunt  Purdie,  an'  she's  im- 
piddent to  me." 

Once  more  John  made  matters  worse  by  sniggering. 
The  colour  rose  in  Lizzie's  face. 

Mr.  Purdie,  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  come 
near  to  sniggering  himself,  held  up  his  hand,  and  said 
soothingly.  "Jist  a  moment,  Lizzie.  I've  a  word  or 
twa  to  say  to  Macgreegor."  He  dropped  his  hand  on 
the  boy's  arm  and  drew  him  gently  against  his  knee. 

"Listen,  laddie.  I  was  thinkin'  aboot  ye  comin'  up 
in  the  steamboat  the  day,  and  I  was  wonderin'  what 
I  wud  gi'e  ye  for  yer  Ne'erday,1  if " 

"What  are  ye  gaun  to  gi'e  us.  gran'paw?" 

"Patience,  patience!  What  I  wud  gie  ye  for  yer 
Ne'erday — if  ye  was  guid,  an'  diligent,  an'  obedient, 
an'  weel-behaved  till  the  end  o'  the  year.  Noo  it's 
no'  vera  lang  till  the  end  o'  the  year — jist  ten  days 
— an'  I've  nae  doobt  ye  could  please  yer  paw  an'  maw 
rael  weel  for  that  time,  if  ye  was  tryin'.  D'ye  see?" 

1  Ne'erday  =  New  Year's  Day   (gift). 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  211 

"Ay,  I  see — I'll  try  .  .  .  What  are  ye  gaun  to  gi'e 
us?" 

"It'll  be  a  prize  for  guid  conduct."  Mr.  Purdie 
smiled  on  the  parents,  and  turned  again  to  his  grand- 
son. "Weel,  I  was  thinkin'  o'  a  watch  an'  chain." 

"Dod,  that'll  be  fine!"  cried  John  delightedly. 

"A  watch  an'  chain!"  murmured  Lizzie.  "Oh, 
fayther!" 

Macgregor  looked  straight  in  the  old  face.  "D'ye 
mean  a  penny  yin,  gran 'paw?" 

"Macgreegor!" — a  warning  whisper  from  Lizzie. 

Mr.  Purdy  laughed.  "Na,  na,  laddie.  A  real  sil- 
ver watch  an'  chain!" 

"Wi'  a  key  to  wind  it?  I  like  the  sort  wi'  a  key 
— same  as  your  auld  yin.  I  dinna  like  the  sort " 

"Macgreegor,"  Lizzie  exclaimed,  "haud  yer  tongue 
an'  say  'thenk  ye'  to  yer  gran'paw." 

"But  I  ha'ena  got  it  yet,  maw. — Wi'  a  key  to  wind 
it,  gran'paw?" 

"I'll  tak'  a  note  o'  the  key,  ma  mannie,"  was  the 
good-humoured  assurance  of  Mr.  Purdie.  "But  ye'll 
no'  forget  ye've  got  to  win  the  prize,"  he  added,  at 
a  hint  from  his  daughter. 

"I'll  no'  forget,"  Macgregor  said  confidently. 

There  was  a  pause  that  lasted  till  Lizzie  managed 
to  catch  her  son's  eye. 

"I'll  awa'  an'  learn  ma  lessons,"  said  Macgregor 
cheerfully,  and  picking  up  his  book  left  the  room. 

"A  guid  beginnin',"  remarked  Mr.  Purdie,  smiling, 
and  bringing  out  his  pipe. 

"Oh,  he'll  win  the  prize  easy,"  said  John,  with  a 
laugh.  ^'Eh,  wife?" 

Lizzie's  expression  softened.  "I  wonder  hoo  wee 
Jeanie  made  that  big  hole  in  her  pinny,"  she  said,  tak- 
ing up  her  sewing. 


212  KIDDIES 


ii 

When  we  come  to  think  of  it,  ten  days  is  a  long  time 
to  be  good,  and  diligent,  and  obedient,  and  well-be- 
haved. Which  of  us  would  venture  to  promise  sta- 
bility in  these  qualities  over  that  period?  Which  of 
us  would  deserve  a  prize  at  the  end  thereof?  As 
Gran'paw  Purdie  said  on  the  last  night  of  the  year 
— but  stay;  Gran'paw  Purdie  shall  speak  for  himself 
presently. 

No  boy  worthy  of  the  name  can  win  a  prize  for 
good  conduct.  At  best,  a  boy  may  be  awarded  a  prize 
for  conduct  less  bad  than  that  of  his  fellows.  The 
phrase  good  conduct,  however,  hath  a  smugly  pleasing 
sound  to  very  young  children  and  also  to  adults  who 
affect  to  have  forgotten  their  own  youthful  pecca- 
dillos. 

It  was  only  to  be  expected  that  Macgregor  would 
plunge  from  failure  into  failure.  Nevertheless  failure 
involves  the  existence  of  endeavours  to  succeed.  And, 
curiously  enough,  the  more  outstanding  failures  of 
those  ten  days  were  not  so  much  due  to  Macgregor's 
badness,  idleness,  disobedience,  and  ill-behaviour  as  to 
certain  circumstances,  examples  of  which  ought  in  com- 
mon fairness  to  be  recorded. 

Macgregor  would  certainly  not  have  started  to  climb 
that  lamp-post  in  the  dark  had  his  friend  Willie  Thom- 
son, instead  of  daring  him  to  perform  the  feat,  in- 
formed him  that  the  lamp-post  was  freshly  adorned 
with  green  paint. 

Nor  would  he  have  been  foot  of  his  class  on  the 
last  day  of  the  term  had  Willie  Thomson,  whose  turn 
it  was  to  occupy  that  seat  of  dishonour,  refrained  from 
taking  an  unlawful  holiday.  Nor,  during  the  Satur- 
day visit  to  the  Zoo  with  his  parents,  would  he  have 
permitted  a  monkey  to  take  his  new  hat  (which  his 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  213 

mother  had  insisted  on  his  wearing),  however  "daft" 
he  miserably  felt  it  to  be,  had  not  the  monkey  snatched 
it  from  his  head  while  he  was  busy  telling  his  mother 
how  he  hated  it.  Nor,  finally,  would  he  have  left  the 
little  jam  tart,  purloined  from  Mrs.  McOstrich's  sup- 
per-table, upon  a  certain  chair,  had  he  foreseen  that 
his  most  severe  and  superior  relative  Aunt  Purdie 
would  sit  thereon. 

But  without  these  extenuating  circumstances,  which 
grown  up  people  could  hardly  be  expected  to  appre- 
ciate, the  four  misdeeds  were  surely  sufficient  in  them- 
selves to  blot  out  the  vision  of  a  shining  prize.  They 
did  so,  undoubtedly,  so  far  as  Lizzie  was  concerned, 
though  she  disguised  her  despair  in  exhortation  and 
encouragement  until  the  eleventh  hour,  until  which 
hour  Macgregor  replied  that  the  watch  must  have  a 
key.  John  continued,  or  professed  to  continue,  san- 
guine, pointing  out  that  they  were  not  called  upon  to 
report  all  their  son's  misdeeds  to  the  grandfather,  and 
that  Aunt  Purdie  was  hardly  likely  to  report  the  jam 
tart  incident  for  fear  of  ridicule. 

"Honesty,"  Lizzie,  said,  with  the  heavy  sigh  of  one 
deploring  a  dreary  fact,  "is  the  best  policy ;  an'  if  Mac- 
greegor  doesna  deserve  the  prize,  he's  no'  gaun  to  get 
it." 

"He'll  deserve  it  yet,  wife,"  returned  John,  and 
reeled  off  a  long  list  of  crimes  which  Macgregor  might 
have — but  had  not — committed. 

"An'  he  doesna  deserve  to  ha'e  a  pairty,  neither," 
she  said.  "Ye  ken  that  yersel',  John." 

"No*  bein'  a  prize,  it  doesna  matter,"  he  replied 
lightly.  "Cheer  up,  Lizzie!  He's  nae  waur  nor  I 
was  when  I  was  his  age."  Here  followed  a  fearful 
list  of  John's  juvenile  delinquencies. 

"Man,"  she  interrupted  at  last,  "I've  got  a  con- 
science!" 


214  KIDDIES 

"Weel,  ma  dear,  that's  no'  your  fau't,  an'  I'm  no' 
blamin'  ye." 

So  it  came  to  Hogmanay.1 

John,  ignoring  his  wife's  many  protests,  all  more 
or  less  to  the  effect  that  he  was  aping  "the  gentry," 
had  decorated  the  kitchen  with  diagonals  of  paper 
flowers,  slung  from  the  four  corners  of  the  roof,  a 
couple  of  Chinese  lanterns  hung  from  the  drying  pole, 
and  sundry  sprigs  of  holly  stuck  in  likely  places. 

The  "company"  consisted  of  Gran'paw  and  Gran'- 
maw  Purdie,  Willie  Thomson,  Macgregor's  chief 
chum,  two  other  small  boys,  three  little  girls,  whom 
Macgregor  had  not  been  particularly  keen  on  inviting, 
and  a  bigger  girl,  Jessie  Mary,  aged  fourteen,  who 
acted  as  Lizzie's  lieutenant  in  organising  games  and 
keeping  order  generally.  Aunt  and  Uncle  Purdie 
were  expected  later,  when  the  juvenile  entertainment 
was  over,  to  assist  the  elders  in  bringing  in  the  New 
Year — at  which  ceremony,  by  the  way,  Macgregor's 
presence  was  to  be  permitted  on  condition  that  he 
was  "extra  good"  throughout  the  evening.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Ostrich  had  been  unable  to  accept  Macgregor's  in- 
vitation. Despite  the  fact  that  New  Year's  Day  was 
a  holiday  in  the  bakehouse,  Mr.  McOstrich  insisted 
on  retiring  at  his  customary  hour,  eight  o'clock,  and 
consequently  his  spouse  must  stay  at  home.  But  the 
kindly  woman  had  sent  a  large  assortment  of  buns  and 
pastries,  which  Macgregor  and  his  young  friends  wel- 
comed without  any  apparent  regret  at  the  donor's  ab- 
sence. It  was  unanimously  agreed,  however,  that  to 
be  closely  related  to  a  baker  was  the  most  desirable 
thing  in  the  world. 

For  the  space  of  a  couple  of  hours  all  went  so 
brightly,  so  smoothly,  and  Macgregor  behaved  so 
nicely — towards  even  the  little  girls — that  hope,  mori- 

1  December  31. 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  215 

bund  for  days,  stirred  softly  in  the  mother  heart.  The 
watch  and  chain  might  yet  be  the  laddie's  property 
and  her  pride.  Mrs.  Robinson  was  roused  from  such 
a  reverie  by  her  husband's  voice  above  the  childish 
din. 

"Here,  Lizzie,  what's  next  on  the  programme?" 

Joining  the  little  throng,  she  appealed  to  Jessie 
Mary.  "Something  they  can  a'  play  at,  lassie." 

"Bee-baw-babbity,"  said  Jessie  Mary,  and  was 
echoed  by  the  smaller  guests. 

"Ach,  that's  a  daft  game,"  said  Willie  Thomson, 
contemptuously. 

"Ay,"  Macgregor  agreed.     "It's  a  daft " 

Lizzie  was  swiftly  upon  him,  a  gentle  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "Mind  what  yer  gran'paw's  maybe  got  for 
ye  if  ye're  a  guid  laddie,  dearie,"  she  whispered. 

Macgregor  hesitated.  "Ye're  sure  it'll  ha'e  a  key? 
Wullie  Thomson,  come  on  an'  play,  or  I'll  gi'e  ye  a 
bat  on  the  nose." 

"Gaun!  hit  me!"  said  Willie  truculently,  stepping 
forward  in  an  attitude  of  defence. 

John  interposed,  laughing,  and  presently  the  game, 
which  is  of  the  kiss-in-the-ring  order,  was  set  agoing. 

It  fell  to  Macgregor  to  be  first  in  the  centre.  He 
didn't  like  the  part,  but  was  determined  to  go  through 
with  it.  With  a  self-conscious  smirk  he  knelt  to  the 
words : 

Kneel  down,  kiss  the  crown, 
Kiss  the  crown,  kiss  the  crown, 
Kneel  down,  kiss  the  crown, 
Kiss  a  bonny  wee  lassie. 

The  singing  ceased,  the  dancers  halted.  The  small 
boys  sniggered,  the  little  girls  looked  modestly  ex- 
pectant. Macgregor  looked  very  unhappy. 

"Come  awa',  Macgreegor,"  his  grandfather  called 
encouragingly  from  the  fireside. 


2i6  KIDDIES 

"The  dear!"  murmured  his  grandmother. 

Macgregor  took  a  step  in  Jessie  Mary's  direction. 

"That's  the  boy!"  cried  John. 

Macgregor  took  another  step. 

"Haw,  haw!"  laughed  Willie  Thomson.  "He's  for 
the  big  yin!" 

Ere  Macgregor  could  turn,  Jessie  Mary,  doubtless 
to  end  his  embarrassment  ran  forward  and  kissed  him 
lightly  on  the  cheek. 

"Haw,  haw!"  laughed  Willie  again. 

Threateningly,  Macgregor  went  close  to  him. 
"What  are  ye  laughin'  at?" 

"Haw,  haw!    Ye  kissed  her.     Haw!- 


"I  didna!     If  ye  say  that  again,  I'll  gi'e  ye  a- 


Jessie  Mary  put  herself  between  the  threatening 
fists. 

"Wullie  Thomson,"  she  said  indignantly,  "if  ye 
dinna  behave  vessel' " 

"I  believe  ye  kissed  him  first,"  cried  Willie,  with 
more  guffaws. 

With  a  toss  of  her  head  Jessie  Mary  retorted:  "I 
wudna  kiss  you  if  ye  was  the  only  man  in  the  world !" 

"I  wudna  gi'e  ye  the  chance!"  yelled  Willie,  and 
fell  upon  Macgregor. 

"Tits!  tits!"  cried  John,  separating  the  combatants. 
"This'll  never  dae.  Wullie,  shake  hauns  wi'  Mac- 
greegor,  an'  tell  Jessie  Mary  ye're  sorry." 

After  some  persuasion  the  boys  shook  hands — rather 
limply,  it  must  be  allowed. 

"Noo,  Wullie,  tell  Jessie  Mary  ye're  sorry." 

Said  Jessie:  "He  can  keep  his  sorry.  I'm  no'  in 
wi'  him  ony  mair."  And,  with  another  toss  of  her 
head,  moved  away. 

Next  moment  Lizzie's  arm  went  round  her  neck. 
"Lassie,  ye've  been  a  terrible  help  to  me  the  nicht. 
Dinna  let  onything  spile  Macgreegor's  pairty  noo." 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  217 

She  led  the  girl  back  to  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 
"Wullie,  here's  Jessie  Mary  ready  to  forgi'e  ye." 

"I'm  no'  heedin',"  returned  the  boy  sullenly.  "I 
mean,  I'm  sorry.  Onything  for  peace."  He  walked 
off  to  the  table  against  the  wall,  and  presently  he  and 
Macgregor  were  sharing  an  orange,  while  Gran'paw 
Purdie,  with  a  chuckle  of  relief,  relit  his  pipe,  and 
gran'maw,  still  nervous,  pretended  to  resume  knitting. 
Jessie  Mary's  proposal  to  play  at  "spin-the-plate"  was 
hailed  with  general  approval. 

"I'll  get  a  plate,"  cried  Macgregor,  and,  with  the 
aid  of  a  chair,  scrambled  upon  the  dresser. 

"Stop,  laddie!"  exclaimed  Lizzie,  starting  to  cross 
the  floor. 

"I  can  manage  fine,  maw,"  he  replied,  taking  a 
large  plate  from  the  rack. 

"Na,  na.     Pit  it  doon  this  meenute!" 

A  dismal  crash  was  followed  by  a  more  dismal 
silence.  Macgregor's  knuckles  went  to  his  eyes.  "Ye 
shuldna  ha'e  tell't  me  to  pit  it  doon,  maw." 

With  a  choking  sound  Mrs.  Robinson  stooped  to 
collect  the  fragments  of  one  of  her  "best." 

John  and  the  grandparents  hastened  to  the  scene  of 
disaster. 

"Dinna  greet,  dearie,"  said  gran'maw. 

"I'm  no'  greetin',"  mumbled  Macgregor. 

His  father  lifted  him  down  and  patted  his  shoulder. 
"Never  heed,  Lizzie.  He  didna  mean  to  break  it. 
An' — an'  it's  Hogmanay,"  he  said.  "I'll  sune  get  ye 
a  plate,  Macgregor."  He  mounted  the  chair.  .  .  . 
"Here's  yin." 

Mrs.  Robinson  rose  swiftly  to  her  feet.  "No'  that 
yin,  John!"  she  screamed. 

Crash ! 

John  followed  the  plate  to  the  floor,  looking  less 
crestfallen,  perhaps,  than  might  have  been  expected. 


218  KIDDIES 

With  something  like  a  sob  Lizzie  fell  on  her  knees 
beside  the  new  wreckage. 

There  was  a  silence.  Macgregor  turned  from  one 
parent  to  the  other.  Then  he  went  to  his  mother,  and 
touched  her  rather  diffidently. 

"Never  heed,  maw,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "He 
didna  mean  it.  An'  it's  Hogmanay." 

"Aw,  the  wee  man!"  Gran'maw  Purdie  softly  ex- 
claimed. 

At  this  point  John  slipped  from  the  room. 

Gran'paw  Purdie  created  a  diversion  by  toddling  to 
the  dresser  and  declaring  his  intention  of  "trying  his 
luck."  This  set  the  company  smiling,  and  brought 
Lizzie  to  her  feet. 

"Na,  na,  fayther,"  she  cried,  half  laughing,  half 
crying,  as  she  restrained  his  arm. 

"Weel,  Lizzie,"  he  said,  drawing  Macgregor  to  his 
side,  "never  heed  aboot  the  plates.  Ye  can  get  plenty 
mair  like  them,  but  ye'll  never  get  anither  Hogmanay 
like  this." 

Lizzie  said  nothing,  but  proceeded  to  take  down 
one  of  her  old  plates  which  she  handed  to  Jessie  Mary. 

The  game  went  merrily  until  Willie  Thomson  hav- 
ing got  the  plate,  called  Macgregor,  who  in  turn  called 
Willie,  who  again  called  Macgregor,  who  once  more 
called  Willie,  who  for  the  third  time  called  Mac- 
gregor  

"That'll  no'  dae,"  Jessie  Mary  interrupted,  seizing 
the  plate.  "Ye  maun  cry  somebody  else." 

Trouble  seemed  imminent  when  the  door  was 
thrown  open  and  John  came  in,  flourishing  a  bunch 
of  gaily  coloured  rubber  balloons  on  strings. 

"See  what  Mistress  McOstrich  has  sent  ye  a',"  he 
cried,  and  was  forthwith  mobbed  by  shrieking  children. 

There  was  a  balloon  for  each  one,  and  joy  seemed 
to  have  reached  its  climax,  and  Jessie  Mary  was  re- 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  219 

turning  the  plate  to  the  rack,  when  from  the  smallest 
boy  arose  a  most  doleful  wailing.  He  was  immedi- 
ately surrounded  by  sympathetic  inquirers. 

"Naebody  cried  on  me  to  spin  the  p-plate,"  he 
sobbed  at  last. 

"Never  heed,  Johnny,"  said  Macgregor.  "I'll  let 
ye  bash  ma  heid  wi'  yer  balloon."  He  obligingly  bent 
his  poll.  "Gaun!  Bash  it!" 

A  grin  puckered  Johnny's  wet  features  and  he 
promptly  let  fly.  So  did  Willie  Thomson.  So  did  the 
rest  of  the  children.  A  general  scrimmage  ensued. 
The  air  was  full  of  balloons  and  yells  of  delight. 
Gran'paw  slapped  his  knee  and  chuckled.  Gran'maw's 
smile  was  wavering  and  anxious.  The  bell  rang,  but 
no  one  heard  it  save  Lizzie,  who  went  quietly  out. 

"But  it  was  rael  nice  o'  Macgreegor  to  let  the  wee 
laddie  bash  his  heid,"  said  Gran'maw  to  her  spouse. 
"Ye'll  ha'e  to  mind  that  when  ye're  decidin'  aboot 
the  prize." 

Despite  the  din  John  caught  the  latter  remark. 

"D'ye  think  Macgreegor 's  got  ony  chance  noo, 
Maister  Purdie?"  he  inquired  of  his  father-in-law, 
with  assumed  carelessness.  "I  ken  he  hasna  been  as 
guid  as  he  micht  ha'e  been " 

"Weel,  John,"  the  old  man  said,  rubbing  his  hands, 
"I'm  no'  gaun  to  be  severe  on  yer  son.  Efter  a',  there's 
nane  o'  us  ha'e  been  as  guid  as  we  micht  ha'e  been — 
even  in  the  last  ten  days.  An'  so  I've  decided  to  gi'e 
Macgreegor  the  prize — if  he's  guid  frae  noo  till  the 
end  o'  the  year!" 

John  beamed  his  satisfaction.  "I  think  Macgree- 
gor'll  manage  that!"  he  said,  and  seizing  a  balloon 
joined  in  the  fray. 

The  door  opened.  Entered  Aunt  Purdie  in  all  her 
haughtiness  and  grandeur. 


220  KIDDIES 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  merry-makers.  They  with- 
drew with  one  accord  from  the  field  of  fun. 

Aunt  Purdie  halted  and  surveyed  the  scene  with  a 
severe  eye. 

"Sich  a  pandemolium!"  she  exclaimed,  and  looked 
round  coldly  for  an  explanation. 

Lizzie,  who  had  followed  her,  replied  rather  ner- 
vously: "Oh,  it's  jist  Macgreegor  ha'ein'  a  wee 
pairty  for  his  Hogmanay." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  The  visitor  undid  a  button  of  her 
crimson  cloak.  "My  friend  Mrs.  McCluny's  children 
are  having  a  party  on  the  tenth  of  January.  Mrs. 
McCluny's  paying  a  man  to  play  the  pianoforty.  Of 
course,  in  her  position " 

"Will  ye  no'  tak'  a  chair,  Mistress  Purdie?"  ven- 
tured John,  who  was  looking  particularly  red  and 
foolish. 

Aunt  Purdie  joined  the  old  folks  at  the  fireside, 
but  declined  a  seat. 

"I  am  thankful  to  say  that  my  friend  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cluny's nervous  breakdown  has  been  perverted,  though 
last  night  she  was  trembling  like  an  ashpan  leaf,"  she 
announced.  "I  jist  dropped  in  to  tell  you  that  Rob- 
ert and  me  would  not  be  able  to  arrive  here  till  near 
midnight.  Robert  is  extremely  busy  at  the  empo- 
rium  " 

"Paw,"  said  Macgregor,  who  had  been  listening, 
"is  that  whaur  they  keep  livin'  fish — swimmin'  aboot 
in  tanks?" 

"Whisht!"  whispered  Lizzie. 

John  laughed  and  checked  himself.  "Na,  na,  Mac- 
greegor, she  means  yer  uncle's  shop." 

Ignoring  the  interruption,  though  the  word  "shop" 
was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear,  Aunt  Purdie 
proceeded:  "And  I  am  going  to  the  theatre  with 
the  doctor  and  Mrs.  McCluny,  and  afterwards  to 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  221 

supper  at  their  house.  Mrs.  McCluny  and  me  .  .  ." 
A  long  story  of  social  functions  of  superior  quality 
followed. 

Meanwhile  the  children  were  grouped  round  the 
kitchen,  wondering  when  they  were  going  to  be  happy 
again.  Willie  Thomson  drew  Macgregor  into  a  cor- 
ner. The  two  boys  began  to  converse  in  whispers. 

"Did  ye  ever  try  sittin'  doon  on  yin  o'  them?"  in- 
quired Willie,  indicating  his  balloon. 

"Naw.    What  does  it  dae?" 

"It  male's  a  rare  bang."  A  pause.  "I  wud  like  fine 
to  see  yer  aunt  sitting  doon  on  yin." 

"So  would  I,"  Macgregor  admitted.  "But  I  wudna 
try  it  on  till  efter  Ne'erday,  Wullie." 

Willie's  smile  was  pitying.  "Aw,  ye're  thinkin'  o' 
yer  watch  an'  chain,  Macgreegor.  But  ye've  nae 
chance  noo.  I  heard  what  ye  did  at  Mistress  Mc- 
Ostrich's  pairty  an'  at  the  Zoo.  Oh,  ye  canna  win 
the  prize." 

"Maybe — maybe  I'll  get  it  for — for  lettin'  Jessie 
Mary  kiss  me." 

"My!  ye're  green!  Ye'll  never  get  it  for  that. 
But" — Willie's  lips  went  closer  to  his  friend's  ear — 
"I'll  tell  ye  hoo  ye  micht  get  it." 

"Hoo?" — very    eagerly. 

"If  ye  was  pittin'  forward  thon  chair" — Willie 
pointed — "an'  askin'  yer  aunt  to  sit  doon,  polite-like, 
that  wud  maybe  please  yer  aunt,  an'  she  wud  maybe 
tell  yer  gran'paw  to  gi'e  ye  the  prize.  D'ye  see?" 

"Ay,  I  see.  But  I  never  did  onything  that  pleased 
her  yet." 

"Weel,  there's  yer  chance." 

Macgregor  took  a  glance  at  his  superior  relative. 
"She's  lookin'  awfu'  crabbit,  Wullie." 

"She  canna  halp  that.     She'll  no'  look  crabbit  if 


222  KIDDIES 

ye're  polite-like  to  her.  Ha'e  a  shot  at  it,  onywey. 
I'll  come  wi'  ye." 

Macgregor  plucked  up  courage  for  the  desperate 
venture.  "Come  on,  then.  You  keep  ma  balloon." 

Followed  by  his  friend,  Macgregor  advanced  sol- 
emnly towards  the  old  people. 

Said  gran'paw:  "Here's  Macgreegor  comin'  to 
shake  hauns  wi'  ye,  Sarah.  Come  awa',  ma  mannie." 

Aunt  Purdie  regarded  her  nephew  condescendingly. 
"So  you're  having  a  party,  are  you?  Well,  I'm  sure 
I  hope  you're  all  behaving  yourselves." 

His  courage  wavering,  Macgregor  pushed  forward 
the  chair.  "Are  ye  no'  for  a  sate?"  he  asked,  barely 
audibly. 

"The  dearie!"  exclaimed  gran'maw.  "Was  that 
no'  nice  o'  him?  Sit  doon  to  please  him,  Sarah." 

"Well,  upon  my  word!"  Aunt  Purdie  was  plainly 
taken  aback.  "Thank  you,  Macgregor,"  she  said  at 
last,  almost  graciously.  "I  did  not  intend  for  to  be 
seated  at  this  junction ;  still " 

And  she  sat — on  the  balloon  which  Willie,  stealing 
behind  his  friend,  placed  like  a  flash  beneath  her. 

Only  Macgregor  saw  the  action. 

in 

Four  hours  had  passed  way.  The  old  clock  point- 
ed to  ten  minutes  to  midnight.  A  heavy  silence  brood- 
ed upon  the  kitchen.  It  was  broken  only  by  an  oc- 
casional sigh  from  the  people — gran'paw,  gran'maw, 
John — round  the  fire. 

Lizzie  entered  quietly,  sombre  of  countenance,  as 
though  the  house  held  some  one  seriously  ill. 

"Is  he  sleepin'  yet?"  asked  John  dismally. 

His  wife  shook  her  head. 

"Puir  lamb!"  sighed  Gran'maw  Purdie. 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  223 

"His  heart  was  that  set  on  bringin'  in  the  New 
Year  wi'  us  a',"  said  John.  "Is — is  he  greetin',  Liz- 
zie?" 

"No'  the  noo." 

Gran'paw  spoke.     "Did  he  say  onything?" 

"Na."  Disconsolately  Mrs.  Robinson  took  her 
chair.  "Aweel,  Macgreegor's  had  his  chance,  an'  he's 
lost  it." 

"The  temptation,  wife,  was  great,"  said  John. 
"When  I  was  a  wean " 

"I  ken,  John.  Ye  wud  ha'e  done  the  same.  But 
ye  wud  ha'e  got  punished.  .  .  .  Weel,  if  he's  pun- 
ished noo,  he'll  maybe  be  a  better  laddie  in  the  year 
that's  comin'." 

"If  we  was  lettin'  him  bring  in  the  New  Year,  it 
micht  remind  him  to  be  a  better  laddie.  ...  Eh, 
Lizzie?" 

Lizzie  held  her  peace. 

Gran'paw  sat  up  in  his  chair.  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  small  box.  "What  I  want  to  ken  is:  What 
am  I  to  dae  with  this  watch  an'  chain?" 

A  sharp  ring  took  Mrs.  Robinson  from  her  place. 
"It'll  be  Mrs.  Purdie.  I  was  feart  she  wud  be  ower 
offendit  to  come  back." 

Gran'paw  handed  the  watch  to  John.  For  a  space 
there  was  no  sound  save  the  click  of  winding  as  John 
toyed  moodily  with  the  stem.  He  uttered  a  word  or 
two  of  feeble  admiration  and  passed  the  watch  to  the 
old  woman.  "Nae  doobt  there's  young  folk  in  the 
world  that  deserves  prizes  for  guid  conduct,  Maister 
Purdie,"  he  said,  sarcastic  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life. 

At  that  moment  Lizzie  showed  in — not  Aunt,  but 
Uncle,  Purdie,  a  big,  bearded,  genial,  successful  mer- 
chant, without  an  ounce  of  affectation  in  his  com- 
position. 


224  KIDDIES 

"An'  hoo's  a'  wi*  ye?"  he  cried.  "My!  ye're  as 
quiet  as  mice!"  He  looked  about  him. 

"Whaur's  Macgreegor?  I  thocht  he  was  to  get 
bringin'  in " 

"Macgreegor's  in  his  bed  for  misbehavin'  hissel', 
Rubbert,"  said  Lizzie,  with  ponderous  solemnity. 

"Oh!  That's  bad — for  us  yins.  Weel,  he  didna 
misbehave  hissel'  sae  faur  as  I'm  concerned,  so" — 
unwrapping  a  parcel  and  taking  out  a  huge  glass-jar 
— "ye  can  gi'e  him  them  sweeties  wi'  his  Uncle  Pur- 
die's  compliments."  And  the  big  man  planted  the  jar 
on  the  table  and  seated  himself  beside  his  mother.  "I 
thocht  Sarah  wud  ha'e  been  here " 

"Oh,  thenk  ye,  thenk  ye,  Rubbert!"  cried  John, 
and  snatching  up  the  sweets,  made  for  the  door. 

Lizzie  caught  him  just  in  time.  She  secured  the  jar 
and  returned  with  it  to  the  company,  followed  by  her 
man,  who  looked  abashed  and  possibly  a  little  angry. 

"Rubbert,"  she  said  heavily,  "I  canna  gi'e  yer  sweet- 
ies to  Macgreegor." 

"Eh?  They're  the  best  in  the  market.  They'll  no' 
hurt  him.  Tell  him  no'  to  eat  maire  nor  a  pun'  a 
day,"  said  Robert,  laughing. 

"But  its  no'  that,  Rubbert.  .  .  .  I — I  maun  tell  ye 
hoo  Macgreegor  misbehaved  hissel'." 

John  touched  her  arm.  "Aw,  Lizzie,  ye  dinna  need 
to  tell  Rubbert  the  noo." 

"Puir  lamb!"  sighed  Gran'maw. 

"Ye  needna  tell  me,"  said  Robert,  bringing  out  his 
pipe,  "excep'  it's  funny." 

"Funny!"  groaned  Lizzie.  .  .  .  "But  I  maun  tell 
ye,  Rubbert.  .  .  .  He — he  got  Sarah  to  sit  doon  on 
his  balloon." 

There  was  a  dreary  pause. 

Then  Robert,  in  a  solemn  voice,  said: 

"I'm  rael  vexed — for  the  balloon," 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  225 

Whereat  Gran 'paw  smote  his  knee  and  gleefully 
repeated  the  words  to  Gran'maw. 

John's  face  relaxed.  "There,  ye  see,  Lizzie!  It's 
no'  as  serious  as  ye  thocht  it  was.  Rubbert'll  pit  it 
richt  wi'  Sarah." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Robert  heartily. 

"So  I'll  jist  gang  an'  bring  Macgreegor,"  John  went 
on.  "I  ken  he  canna  win  the  prize,  but " 

"What  wey  can  he  no'  win  the  prize?"  Uncle  Pur- 
die  demanded. 

"An'  what's  to  be  done  wi'  this?"  asked  Gran'maw 
gently,  holding  up  the  watch  and  chain. 

"Ay!"  said  Gran'paw.  "An'  there's  anither  thing 
we  should  mind,  Lizzie!" 

"What?"   asked   Lizzie,  wearily. 

"The  laddie  lost  his  balloon!" 

"Dod,  ay!"  exclaimed  John.  "I'll  awa'  an'  bring 
him  to  ye." 

"Na,  John,"  said  Lizzie.  She  turned  to  the  oth- 
ers. "Ye're  a'  against  me,  an'  it's  no'  fair  o*  ye.  Ye 
ken  fine  I  was  jist  as  anxious  as  onybody  for  Mac- 
greegor to  win  the  prize.  But  richt's  richt,  an'  wrang's 
wrang." 

"While's  it's  no'  easy  to  split  the  difference,"  Uncle 
Purdie  observed.  "He's  but  a  wean,  an'  it's  Hog- 
manay.— Was  that  the  bell,  Lizzie?" 

"Ay.  It'll  be  Sarah  at  last.  We  best  no'  say  ony 
mair  aboot  it.  But  Macgreegor  understand  as  weel 
as  me  what  wey  he  canna  get  the  prize." 

The  bell  rang  again,  and  she  hurried  away. 

"What  wey,"  said  Uncle  Purdie,  twinkling,  "what 
wey  dae  ye  no'  turn  the  prize  into  a  present?" 

Gran'paw  slapped  his  knee.  "Man,  Rubbert,  ye've 
hit  it!" 

Gran'maw  clapped  her  hands.  "My!  is  that  no'  a 
fine  notion,  John?" 


226  KIDDIES 

John  hesitated.  "Na,"  he  answered  sadly.  "Lizzie 
wudna  like  that." 

Once  more  Lizzie  showed  in  a  visitor,  but  not  yet 
Aunt  Purdie. 

A  thin,  wizened  female,  garbed  in  rusty  black,  en- 
tered, dragging  rather  than  leading  a  small  boy  of 
abject  mien  and  woebegone  visage.  She  was  unknown 
to  the  company,  but  the  small  boy  was  still  recognis- 
able as  Willie  Thomson. 

"I'm  Wullie's  aunt,"  she  explained,  refusing  the 
chair  proffered  by  John.  "I'm  vexed  for  disturbin'  ye 
at  this  time  o'  nicht,  but  Wullie  cam'  hame  an'  said 
he  had  a  pain  in  his  inside " 

"He  got  naething  to  hurt  him  here,"  put  in  Lizzie, 
doubtless  forgetful  of  Mrs.  McOstrich's  pastries. 

The  visitor  assented  with  a  nod,  and  proceeded  rap- 
idly: "But  efter  I  had  gi'ed  him  a  dose  o'  meddicine, 
he  said  it  wasna  exactly  in  his  inside.  He  said  it  was 
furder  up,  an'  I  was  for  pittin'  on  a  poultice,  when  I 
discovered  it  was  his  conscience." 

"His  conscience!"  exclaimed  Gran'paw. 

"Ay;  jist  that."  She  drew  the  boy  in  front  of  her. 
"Noo,  Wullie,"  she  said  firmly,  though  not  unkindly, 
"noo,  Wullie,  tell  the  truth." 

"I — I  canna,"  mumbled  Willie,  and  sobbed  freely. 

"But  ye've  got  to  dae  it.     Ye  promised  me." 

Thus  adjured  Willie  spoke,  though' very  indistinctly. 

"It  was  me  that — that  pit  the  balloon  ablow  her. 
Macgreegor  k-kent  naething  aboot  it." 

"Weel,  weel!"  muttered  Gran'paw. 

"Puir  lamb!"  sighed  Gran'maw. 

"Gang  on,  Wullie!"  said  the  aunt,  inexorably. 

"I — I  tell't  Macgreegor  he  wud  maybe  get  the  prize 
if  he  askit  her  to  sit  doon,  p-polite-like. — I  want  to 
gang  hame,"  And  the  hapless  youngster  sobbed  afresh. 


FOR  A  GOOD  BOY  227 

The  aunt  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "Did 
Macgreegor  no'  tell  ye?  I  thocht  he  wud,  but  Wullie 
said  Macgreegor  wasna  a  tell-tale." 

"Wullie's  richt  there!"  said  John,  proudly. 

"Aweel,  Wullie,  we  best  get  awa'  hame.  Ye  can 
tell  Macgreegor  ye're  sorry  the  morn." 

They  were  moving  to  the  door  when  Uncle  Purdie 
stepped  forward.  "I'll  get  Macgreegor  anither  the 
morn,"  he  muttered  to  John,  as  he  took  the  jar  of 
sweets  from  the  table.  He  placed  it  in  the  arms  of 
the  astounded  Willie.  "There,  laddie!  Ye've  done 
no'  sae  bad.  Tak'  them  for  yer  Ne'erday.  They'll  no' 
gi'e  ye  a  pain  in  yer  conscience,  onywey." 

While  he  was  speaking  Aunt  Purdie  entered,  Lizzie 
having  omitted  to  fasten  the  outer  door.  No  one 
paid  any  attention  to  her. 

Suddenly  John  cried :  "I'm  gaun  to  get  Macgree- 
gor, Lizzie." 

"Oh,  John,  let  me  gang!" 

And  as  they  both  turned  to  go,  behold!  Macgregor, 
in  his  scarlet  flannel  night-gown,  stood  blinking  un- 
certainly in  the  doorway. 

And  the  clock  struck  the  first  note  of  midnight. 

"Wait  a  wee!"  exclaimed  Gran'paw,  rising  in  great 
excitement.  "John!  Lizzie!  let  me  first!"  He  took 
the  watch  from  Gran'maw's  hands  and  almost  ran 
to  the  boy. 

"Ma  wee  man,  ma  wee  man,"  he  said  happily, 
leading  Macgregor  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  while 
jovial  sounds  began  to  come  up  from  the  street. 
"Ye've  won  yer  prize!"  He  placed  the  watch  and 
chain  in  the  young  hands.  "Ye've  won  yer  prize!" 

Speechless,  Macgregor  stood  gazing  gravely  at  the 
watch. 

All  gathered  round,  Lizzie  the  happiest  of  them  all. 
Even  Aunt  Purdie's  countenance  seemed  to  soften. 


228  KIDDIES 

It  was  as  though,  one  and  all,  they  awaited  the  words 
of  an  oracle. 

And  as  the  last  stroke  of  midnight  fell,  Macgregor's 
eyes  went  from  the  watch  to  his  grandsire's  face. 

"But  whaur's  the  key?"  he  demanded. 


XV 
MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR 


As  a  rule,  the  streets  of  a  city  are  more  or  less  sug- 
gestive of  the  people  who  walk  them.  At  first  sight, 
they  declare  prosperity  or  failure,  progress  or  decay, 
gaiety  or  gloom.  Here  and  there,  however,  we  chance 
upon  a  street  that  cannot  be  fairly  classified,  though 
we  may  judge  it  hastily  according  to  the  weather. 
Such  a  street  is  St.  George's  in  the  city  of  Glasgow. 
If  it  harbours  riches  or  poverty,  it  advertises  neither. 
It  is  walled  chiefly  by  shops  with  dwelling-houses  above 
them ;  at  each  end  it  is  guarded  by  lofty  blocks  oc- 
cupied by  drapery  or  furniture  firms,  for  it  connects 
two  streets  of  considerably  more  importance  than  it- 
self. For  many  years  it  has  been  like  a  middle-aged 
man  who  goes  on  earning  a  poor  but  honest  living 
while  clinging  fast  to  the  gilded  dreams  of  his  youth. 
As  it  was  in  its  beginning,  so  it  is  now — a  street  with 
possibilities. 

Among  those  who  trod  its  greasy  pavements,  one 
Saturday  afternoon  in  January,  was  a  comely  woman 
accompanied  by  two  children,  girl  and  boy.  The  three 
looked  tired  and  cross,  especially  the  boy,  whose  age 
might  have  been  six  or  seven.  The  girl  was  his 
senior  by,  perhaps,  a  couple  of  years.  Mother  and 
children  were  what  is  commonly  termed  "respectably 
dressed."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were  wearing 
their  best  clothes. 

229 


230  KIDDIES 

"Haste  ye,  John,"  said  the  mother  to  the  lagging 
boy — "haste  ye,  or  I'll  never  tak'  ye  to  yer  auntie's 


again 


'I'm  no'  wantin'  to  gang  to  ma  auntie's  again," 
he  retorted  sulkily. 

"Oh,  ye  bad  boy  for  to  say  that,"  exclaimed  his 
sister,  who,  like  many  little  girls  of  her  age,  was 
inclined  to  be  priggish,  "when  yer  auntie  was  that 
kind!" 

"She  wasna  that  kind !" 

"She  was!" 

"She  wasna!  If  ye  say  she  was  again,  I'll  gi'e  ye 
a  bat  on  the  ear!" 

"Whisht,  John!"  the  mother  interposed.  "Behave 
yersel' !" 

"I'll  behave  masel',"  said  John,  "if  ye  gi'e  me  a 
penny." 

"A  penny!    What  for  dae  ye  want  a  penny?" 

"To  buy  a  macaroon." 

"I've  nae  pennies  to  spend  on  macaroons 

Haste  ye!  If  ye're  hungry,  I'll  gi'e  ye  a  nice  sugar- 
piece  when  we  win  hame." 

"I  want  a  penny.    I  seen  plenty  in  yer  purse." 

"Haste  ye,  John!" 

"I  want  a  penny.  If  ye  dinna  gi'e  me  a  penny 
I'll— I'll  sit  doon  in  the  dirt." 

"If  ye  dae  that,  I'll  sort  ye."  The  threat  was  de- 
livered mechanically  as  the  wearied  woman  plodded 
onward. 

"Oh,  maw!"  cried  the  little  girl,  "see  what  John's 
daein'!" 

John,  having  stepped  off  the  pavement,  was  mak- 
ing as  if  to  seat  himself  upon  a  mud-heap.  He  grinned 
wickedly. 

His  mother  made  a  frantic  grab  at  his  arm,  and 
with  a  screech  he  lost  his  balance  and  sat  down. 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     231 

"Ye  shoved  me!"  he  wailed,  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  woman  dragged  him  to  his  feet.  For  several 
seconds  she  was  speechless.  Then  she  said  wrathfully: 

"Come  hame  till  I  sort  ye!" 

"Ye — ye  shoved  me!     I  was  jist  pretendin'." 

"I'll  pretend  ye!" 

At  this  moment  an  elderly  man,  who  had  been 
smoking  his  pipe  in  the  doorway  of  a  tobacco  shop, 
crossed  the  pavement. 

"See,  mistress,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "bring  him  into 
the  shop,  and  I'll  gi'e  him  a  scrape.  He  canna  gang 
hame  like  that." 

The  mother  regarded  her  offspring  with  rage  and 
grief. 

"Thenk  ye,"  she  replied  at  last,   "but " 

"This  way,  mistress,  if  ye  please." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  shop,  past  the  counter,  and 
then  into  an  apartment  which  was  a  combination  of 
kitchen,  parlour,  and  bed-chamber. 

"Excuse  the  condeetion  o'  ma  room,"  he  remarked, 
adding,  "I'm  a  bachelor — but  I  ken  what  boys  are. 
Wait  till  I  get  a  knife." 

"I'm  vexed  to  trouble  ye  like  this,"  said  the  woman. 
"But  I'll  sort  him  when  I  get  him  hame." 

"Ye  shoved  me!"  muttered  John,  rubbing  his  eyes 
with  a  grimy  paw. 

"Oh,  the  story!"  put  in  the  little  girl. 

"Frae  ma  pi'nt  o'  view,"  said  the  tobacconist,  a 
table-knife  in  one  hand,  and  a  newspaper  in  the  other, 
"the  unhappy  event  seemed  to  be  the  result  o'  a 
sort  o'  misunderstandin'.  Come  here,  laddie,  an'  stan' 
as  steady  as  ye  can.  I'll  jist  remove  the  superfluous 
glaur,  an'  yer  mither  can  brush  aff  the  rest  when  it's 
dry.  This  is  a  nice  suit  ye've  got  on,"  he  remarked 
in  a  soothing  voice  as  he  set  to  work. 


232  KIDDIES 

"It's  the  first  day  he's  had  it  on,"  said  the  woman 
ruefully. 

"Weel,  weel,  it'll  no'  be  the  last.  A  proper  brush- 
in'  '11  mak'  it  as  guid  as  new — Mistress  Fergus.  Ye'll 
excuse  me  mentionin'  yer  name — but  I  ken  ye  weel 
by  sicht,  an'  Mr.  Burnside,  yer  lodger,  is  a  reg'lar 
customer  o'  mines.  (Steady,  ma  laddie !)  A  nice  man, 
Mr.  Burnside — something  to  dae  wi'  theaytres,  I  sup- 
pose frae  his  conversation,  but  no'  exactly  a  play-actor." 

"He's  no'  on  the  stage,  but  he's  connectit  wi'  the 
stage.  He's  lodged  wi'  me  for  three  year  noo,  an' 
he's  aye  behaved  like  a  gentleman.  He  kent  ma  hus- 
band, an'  when  he  heard  ma  husband  was  deid  an' 
I  had  to  keep  a  lodger,  he  cam'  an'  offered  hissel'. 
It  was  rael  kind  o'  him,  because,  ye  see,  I  had  nae 
experience  o'  keepin'  lodgers.  But  I've  did  ma  best 
to  suit  him." 

"An'  I've  nae  doobt  ye've  succeeded,  Mistress  Fer- 
gus. If  he's  a  parteeclar  aboot  ither  things  as  he 
is  aboot  his  tobacco  (the  left  leg,  laddie!),  ye  maun 
be  clever  to  ha'e  suited  him  for  three  year.  I  was 
gaun  to  venture  to  say  that  ma  name  was  Caw — 
John  Caw,  to  be  exact.  It's  ower  the  door,  but  it's 
got  faded,  an'  I'm  waitin'  for  better  trade  to  get  it 
regilded." 

"Ma  name's  John,"  said  the  little  boy,  who,  under 
the  man's  kindly  touch,  was  rapidly  recovering. 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  John,"  his  mother  said  sharply. 

"Oh,  he  doesna  mean  ony  harm,"  said  Mr.  Caw 
mildly.  "Boys  will  be  boys,  as  the  sayin'  is.  Ye'll 
be  prood  o'  him  yet,  Mistress  Fergus.  An'  as  for  yer 
lassie,  I've  nae  doobt  she's  a  great  help  to  ye,  though 
she's  young." 

At  this  the  little  girl,  who  had  been  inclined  to  sulk, 
beamed  brightly  at  the  speaker,  and  seemed  inclined 
to  regard  her  brother  more  tolerantly. 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     233 

Followed  a  short  silence,  during  which  Mr.  Caw 
completed  the  scraping  process. 

"There!"  he  said,  rising  from  his  knees,  and  keep- 
ing his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  "that's  a  wee 
thing  cleaner.  But  dinna  sit  in  the  dirt  again,  ma 
laddie." 

John  opened  his  mouth  to  explain  that  he  had  been 
shoved,  but  thought  better  of  it. 

"I'm  greatly  obleeged  to  ye  for  yer  kindness,"  said 
Mrs.  Fergus,  "but — is  that  no'  somebody  in  the  shop?" 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  tobacconist  regretfully,  although, 
to  be  sure,  trade  was  wretched. 

He  shook  hands  hurriedly  with  the  children,  and 
guided  them  to  the  door.  Then  he  offered  his  hand, 
somewhat  awkwardly,  to  the  mother. 

"Dinna  punish  him  this  time,"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  but  he  deserves  it.    He  was  rael  bad." 

"Aw,  let  him  aff  this  time,  if  ye  please.  He'll  no' 
dae  it  again." 

Mrs.  Fergus  shook  her  head,  smiled  faintly,  and 
nodded.  After  all,  she  was  not  given  to  punishing 
her  children. 

"Thenk  ye,"  he  murmured  gratefully,  and  hastened 
to  attend  to  the  customer. 

"That's  an  awfu'  nice  man,"  remarked  the  little 
girl  on  the  homeward  way.  "He  gi'ed  me  a  penny." 

"Same  here,"  said  John. 

"Weel,  I  never!"  Mrs.  Fergus  exclaimed. 

"What  did  he  gi'e  you,  maw?"  her  son  inquired. 

"Me!"  she  laughed.     "Naething,  of  course!" 

"Oh!"  John  considered  for  a  few  moments  ere  he 
said  generously,  "I'll  gi'e  ye  a  taste  o'  ma  macaroon, 
maw.  Here's  the  baker's  1" 


234  KIDDIES 


ii 

Oh  the  following  Monday  afternoon  the  tobacconist, 
having  nothing  more  profitable  to  do,  was  seated  be- 
hind his  counter,  reading  his  halfpenny  morning  pa- 
per for  the  second  time,  when  he  became  possessed  by 
a  feeling  that  he  was  being  watched.  Looking  over 
the  edge  of  his  paper,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  small 
figure  in  retreat  from  the  doorway. 

"Here!"  he  called,  but  got  no  response. 

Presently,  however,  a  small  face  peeped  round  the 
corner. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Caw  in  a  mild  voice. 

The  small  face  disappeared. 

Mr.  Caw  sighed,  and  was  about  to  resume  his  read- 
ing when  one  half  of  the  small  face  became  visible. 

"Come  in,  laddie,  come  in." 

Very  slowly  the  remainder  of  the  small  face  came 
into  view,  and  was  followed  by  the  small  body  of  a 
small  boy. 

"Is  that  you,  John?" 

Halting  on  the  threshold,  the  small  boy  grinned  in 
a  peculiarly  foolish  fashion. 

"I  see  it's  jist  yersel',  John,"  the  man  said  in 
friendly  tones.  "I  hope  yer  nice  suit  was  nane  the 
waur  o'  the  scrapin' — eh  ?  .  .  .  Are  ye  no'  comin' 
in-by?" 

John  shuffled  his  feet,  but  remained  dumb,  while 
his  grin  became,  if  anything,  more  foolish.  From  sheer 
embarrassment  Mr.  Caw  began  to  grin  also,  and  con- 
tinued doing  so  until  he  caught  sight  of  his  counte- 
nance in  a  mirror  which  advertised  somebody's  "prize 
cigars."  He  then  felt  a  prize  idiot,  and  might  have 
said  something  cross,  had  not  a  biggish  boy,  passing 
along  the  pavement,  given  John  so  violent  a  push  that 
the  youngster  was  propelled  right  into  the  shop. 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     235 

Clutching  at  the  nearest  object  for  support,  the 
hapless  John,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  fearsome 
rattle,  fell  prone  beneath  an  avalanche  consisting  of 
Mr.  Caw's  entire  stock  of  "superior  walking  sticks." 

"Great  Jupiter!"  ejaculated  the  tobacconist,  hurry- 
ing round  the  counter.  "Are  ye  hurt,  laddie?" 

John,  emerging  from  the  wreckage,  rubbing  a  knee 
with  one  hand  and  the  top  of  his  head  with  the  other, 
glanced  at  the  inquirer's  face.  Doubtless  because 
he  saw  no  anger  there,  only  concern,  he  decided,  after  a 
sniff  or  two,  not  to  cry. 

"Somebody  shoved  me,"  he  complained. 

"Ay !     I  seen  him,"  said  Mr.  Caw,  with  indignation. 

"What  was  he  like?  If  I  catch  him,  I'll  knock  the 
face  aff.him!" 

"Na,  na!  ye  wud  never  dae  a  thing  like  that, 
John." 

"Ay,  wud  I!    If  I  catch  him,  I'll " 

The  biggish  boy  peeped  round  the  corner  of  the 
doorway. 

"Catch  me!"  he  yelled,  and,  guffawing,  disappeared. 

John  looked  disconcerted. 

"I  didna  ken  he  was  that  big,"  he  murmured. 

"Help  me  to  gather  up  the  sticks,"  said  Mr.  Caw, 
as  if  he  had  not  noticed  anything. 

Between  them  they  set  up  the  stand  and  replaced 
the  sticks  in  it.  Then  they  gazed  at  each  other. 

"I  helped  ye,"  said  John  cockily. 

"So  ye  did,"  Mr.  Caw  cheerfully  admitted. 

"I'm  gey  clever." 

"So  ye  are." 

Once  more  they  gazed  at  each  other — the  stout, 
bearded  man,  the  skinny,  pale-faced  boy. 

"I  think  I'll  ha'e  to  gi'e  ye  a  penny,"  said  Mr. 
Caw  at  last. 

John  grinned  expectantly,  but  said  nothing. 


236  KIDDIES 

"What'll  ye  buy,  if  I  gi'e  ye  a  penny?" 

"A  macaroon." 

"Aw.  .  .  .  Pastry's  no'  vera  guid  for  wee  laddies." 

"I  like  pastry.  .  .  Are  ye  gaun  to  gi'e  us  a  penny?" 

Mr.  Caw  went  behind  the  counter  and  opened  the 
till.  He  sighed  as  he  slid  a  coin  across  the  wood. 

"There's  yer  penny,   John,"   he  said  dejectedly. 

John  grabbed  it  and  departed. 

Mr.  Caw  sighed  again,  seated  himself,  and  took  up 
his  newspaper.  The  news,  though  stale  to  him,  must 
have  been  sad,  for  he  sighed  repeatedly. 

John   reappeared. 

"I  bought  chokelet  instead,"  he  explained,  pushing 
a  halfpenny  packet  towards  the  tobacconist.  "D'ye 
like  chokelet?"  he  inquired  rather  anxiously. 

Mr.  Caw  awkwardly  returned  the  packet  with  the 
remark  that,  while  he  never  touched  chocolate,  he 
was  extremely  obliged  to  John.  Whereupon  John, 
with  a  bright  smile,  repossessed  himself  of  the  dainty. 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  their  friendship.  In 
time  John  forgot  to  expect  a  penny;  Mr.  Caw  forgot 
that  pennies  were  any  consideration  to  John.  The 
man  told  stories;  the  boy  listened.  The  man  made 
tea  and  toast;  the  boy  shared  the  meal.  Frequently 
the  boy's  mother  or  sister  came  to  take  him  home. 

"He's  jist  a  bother  to  ye,"  the  mother  would  say. 

"Bother?"  Mr.  Caw  would  return;  "he's  a  plees- 
ure!"  And  he  would  regard  the  widow  with  an  eye 
so  kindly  that  she,  having  no  thoughts  of  a  second 
husband,  became  uncomfortable. 

As  time  went  on,  Mr.  Caw  grew  so  bold  as  to 
suggest  Sunday  afternoon  excursions  on  the  electric 
cars.  Mrs.  Fergus  had  her  misgivings,  but  gradually 
he  overcame  them,  and  trips  were  made  to  the  coun- 
try— once  as  far  as  Loch  Lomond.  Sometimes  the 
man  and  boy  went  alone. 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     237 

"Wee  nic-pics,"  Mr.  Caw  humorously  termed  them, 
and  no  one  could  have  suspected  that  he  half-starved 
himself  during  the  week  in  order  to  provide  for  the 
Sunday  feasts.  Business  was  anything  but  good;  the 
profit  derived  from  keeping  the  shop  open  fifteen 
hours,  six  days  a  week,  was  little  more  than  a  labour- 
er's wage. 

But  a  new  interest  had  come  into  Mr.  Caw's  ex- 
istence, and  his  regular  customers  began  to  notice 
a  new  cheerfulness  in  his  conversation,  a  new  brisk- 
ness in  his  service  at  the  counter.  The  neighbours, 
too,  began  to  observe  the  boy's  frequent  visits  to  the 
shop  and  the  Sunday  excursions,  and  decided  that  the 
tobacconist  was  courting  the  mother  through  the  son. 
Further,  they  agreed  that  he  had  little  or  no  chance. 

"He's  ower  auld  for  her,  an'  he  hasna  the  siller  to 
tempt  her,  an'  his  face  is  awfu'  like  a  goat's,"  said 
a  woman  who  had  once  been  employed  to  clean  the 
shop  at  what  she  considered  an  insufficient  fee.  Un- 
fortunately, the  last  clause  of  her  statement  was  taken 
up  by  her  son,  who  repeated  it  jeeringly  to  John,  as 
the  latter  was  about  to  enter  the  shop  the  following 
afternoon. 

John  promptly  hit  out,  and  a  fight  ensued,  which 
was  ended  only  by  the  efforts  of  the  tobacconist. 

"I  bled  his  nose,  onywey,"  panted  John,  while  his 
elderly  friend,  having  conducted  him  to  the  living- 
room,  applied  butter  to  a  bruise  on  his  forehead. 

"But  ye  shouldna  quarrel,  laddie.  What  was  it 
aboot?" 

"He  said  ye  had  a  face  like  a  goat." 

"Aw,  did  he?"  Mr.  Caw  tried  not  to  look  an- 
noyed. He  had  always  been  rather  proud  of  his  beard. 
With  a  feeble  smile  he  inquired: 

"Dae  you  think  I'm  like  a  goat,  John?" 

John  shook  his  head  emphatically. 


238  KIDDIES 

Mr.  Caw  tried  not  to  look  delighted. 

"Ye're  liker  a  sheep,"  said  John;  adding,  "It's  a 
nicer  beast  nor  a  goat." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Caw,  not  being  entirely  without  a 
sense  of  humour,  startled  the  boy  by  laughing  up- 
roariously. 

"Maybe  I  am  liker  a  sheep,  John,"  he  said  at  last, 
"but  we'll  keep  that  a  secret,  if  ye  please.  Are  ye 
gaun  to  tak'  yer  tea  wi'  me  the  nicht?" 

"Ay — thenk  ye  kindly,"  said  John,  obeying  for 
once  his  mother's  injunction  to  remember  his  "man- 
ners" before  Mr.  Caw. 

"I'm  vexed  I've  nae  jam  the  nicht;  the  pot's  empty." 

"I'll  gang  oot  an'  buy  jam  for  ye,"  replied  the 
cause  of  the  pot's  emptiness,  with  great  promptitude. 

"  'Deed,  I  never  thocht  o'  that,"  returned  Mr. 
Caw,  producing  one  of  his  hard-earned  shillings. 
"Mind  an'  dinna  fa'  wi'  the  jam." 

"No'  likely." 

During  the  boy's  absence  Mr.  Caw  set  out  the  tea- 
things. 

"Aweel,"  he  reflected,  "it  maun  be  a  grand  thing 
to  ha'e  a  laddie — even  when  he  is  impiddent." 

in 

On  a  night  in  spring,  more  than  a  year  after  his 
first  meeting  with  the  Fergus  family,  Mr.  Caw  was 
thinking  of  putting  up  the  shutters,  when  a  smartly 
dressed  man  of  between  thirty  and  forty  entered  the 
shop. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Burnside,"  said  the  tobacconist,  looking 
pleased,  "I  was  fearin'  ye  had  deserted  me." 

Mrs.  Fergus's  lodger  laughed  pleasantly. 

"Been  away  for  a  week.  When  I  do  desert  this 
locality  we  must  arrange  to  do  our  business  by  post. 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     239 

I  couldn't  live  happy  without  that  special  mixture  of 
yours." 

"But — but  are  ye  thinkin'  o'  leavin'  this — this  lo- 
cality?" 

Mr.    Burnside  laughed   again. 

"Fact  is,"  he  said,  with  elaborate  carelessness,  "I'm 
getting  married  shortly." 

"Weel,  weel!"  said  Mr.  Caw  blankly.  Then,  as  if 
recollecting  himself,  he  held  out  his  hand.  "I'm  sure 
I  congratulate  ye  heartily." 

"Thanks!  I've  just  been  appointed  chief  secretary 
to  Music  Halls,  Limited — an  enormous  concern,  with 
headquarters  in  Manchester." 

"That's  great  news!  I  wish  ye  every  happiness. 
Eh — does  yer  intended  belong  to — to  Glasgow?  Ex- 
cuse me  askin'  sic  a  question." 

"To  Edinburgh.  We've  been  engaged  for  some 
time,  but  I  thought  it  better  to  wait  till  I  managed 
to  hit  this  off." 

"Jist  so."  Mr.  Caw  held  out  his  hand  once  more. 
"I'm  vera  pleased  indeed  to  hear  yer  news,  Mr. 
Burnside." 

Mr.  Burnside  broke  a  short  silence  by  saying:  "I've 
another  bit  of  news  which  may  interest  you — only 
you  must  keep  your  thumb  on  it.  May  I  ask  you 
whether  you  have  a  lease  of  this  shop?" 

"A  lease?  Na,  na;  I  jist  tak'  it  frae  year  to  year. 
Whiles  I  think  I'd  be  better  to  gi'e  it  up  a'thegither." 

"I  think  you  should  try  to  get  a  lease — and  a  good 
long  one — as  soon  as  possible." 

The  tobacconist  gaped. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  get  a  lease,  Mr.  Caw?" 

"Easy!  Look  at  the  empty  shops  here!  The  term's 
next  week " 

"That's  lucky!" 

"But  I  canna  see " 


240  KIDDIES 

Mr.  Burnside  was  not  an  actor,  but  he  had  the 
dramatic  instinct.  He  pointed  across  the  street. 

"D'you   see  that  building  exactly  opposite?" 

"Ay,  I  see  it." 

Mr.  Burnside's  middle  finger  tapped  the  counter 
slowly,  impressively. 

"In  a  few  months  that  building  will  have  disap- 
peared." 

"Disappeared  ?" 

"Yes.  ...  In  a  few  months  more  the  site  will  be 
covered  by  a  magnificent,  up-to-date  music-hall.  .  .  . 
And,  my  friend,  you  and  I  are  the  only  two  people 
at  present  in  Glasgow  who  have  the  information. 
How  does  it  strike  you?  Better  business — eh? — pro- 
vided, of  course,  they  don't  put  up  your  rent.  But, 
if  you're  quick,  you  may  avoid  that  for  years  to 
come." 

"Better  business!"  muttered  Mr.  Caw.  "Why,  sir, 
it'll  be  grand  business!"  he  cried.  "It'll  change  the 
street  entirely." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  other,  smiling. 

A  slight  moisture  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  elderly 
man.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  people  going  out  of 
their  way  to  do  him  a  kindness. 

"Man !"  he  said  abruptly,  "what  made  ye  tell  me?" 

"There's  no  reason  why  one  man  shouldn't  do  an- 
other man  a  good  turn — especially  when  it  costs  noth- 
ing," Mr.  Burnside  lightly  replied.  "Blame  it  on  the 
goodness  of  your  special  mixture,  if  you  like!  Besides, 
you've  been  good  to  that  young  rascal  John  and  his 
mother  and  sister.  I  don't  love  John,  I  can  tell  you, 
but  his  father  and  I  were  boys  together.  His  father 
never  had  the  luck  he  deserved.  Perhaps  he  ought 
to  have  stuck  to  country  life.  But  that's  all  in  the 
past.  Will  you  see  about  that  lease?  I  think  your 
best  plan  would  be  to  call  on  your  landlord  and 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     241 

complain  bitterly  of  the  rent  as  it  stands  at  present; 
then  suggest  a  ten  years'  lease,  if  he  will  agree  to 
knock  a  pound  or  two  off  the  rent.  That  should 
fetch  him.  Try  it.  You  might  also  get  him  to  paint 
the  shop.  A  year  hence  I'll  expect  to  see  you  with  sev- 
eral assistants.  Now  give  me  two  ounces  of  the 
usual." 

Mr.  Caw  weighed  out  the  mixture  and  wrapped  it 
up  with  a  shaky  hand.  "I  canna  thank  ye,"  was  all 
he  said;  but  he  said  it  several  times,  the  last  time  in 
response  to  his  customer's  "good  night." 


IV 

With  gloomy  interest  Mr.  Caw  regarded  the  build- 
ing opposite  his  shop.  The  building  itself  was  gloomy, 
being  in  process  of  demolition.  Until  a  few  hours 
earlier  than  this  autumn  afternoon  the  tottering,  fall 
and  crash  of  each  mass  of  masonry  had  been  a  de- 
light to  the  tobacconist;  his  hopes  had  risen  with  each 
cloud  of  dust.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  "prospects," 
even  at  fifty-three. 

Yet  having  the  prospects,  one  may  find  that  one 
has  no  particular  use  for  them.  That  was  how  John 
Caw  felt  as  he  watched  the  destroyers.  He  was  the 
possessor  of  a  ten  years'  lease  of  his  shop  at  a  ridicu- 
lous rent,  as  his  landlord  declared;  he  was  justified 
in  anticipating  himself  the  owner  of  a  flourishing  little 
business;  his  lean  years  were  all  but  over.  Indeed, 
his  affairs  were  already  improving.  And  yet  he  was 
a  miserable  man. 

"Hullo!"  said  a  young  voice  suddenly. 

Mr.  Caw  turned  from  his  observation  and  smiled. 
The  boy  had  certainly  been  neglecting  him  of  late. 
The  evenings  had  been  fine — and  there  were  other 
boys.  But  the  man's  regret  did  not  include  resentment. 


242  KIDDIES 

"I'm  gled  to  see  ye,  John.  Are  ye  for  a  cup  o' 
tea  the  nicht?" 

"Ay.  But  I'll  ha'e  to  hurry  up.  I've  to  meet 
Willie  Patterson  at  six." 

"Jist  that,"  said  Mr.  Caw  agreeably.  "I'll  get  it 
ready.  Come  ben,  laddie." 

They  went  into  the  back  room,  and  the  host  set 
about  preparing  the  meal.  There  was  a  longish 
silence. 

At  last,  in  what  he  imagined  to  be  a  careless  tone  of 
voice,  the  man  remarked: 

"I've  jist  been  hearin'  that  yer  mither's  thinkin' 
o'  removin'  frae  this  place." 

"Ay,"  the  boy  answered.  "Are  they  biscuits  the 
sweet  sort?" 

Mr.  Caw  nodded.  "An'  whaur  is  she  thinkin'  o' 
settlin'?" 

"Crossbill." 

"Oh,  Crossbill!"  Mr.  Caw,  with  much  deliberation, 
measured  the  tea  from  the  battered  tin  to  the  brown 
pot.  "Crossbill's  a  lang  road  frae  here,"  he  observed, 
returning  the  tin  to  the  mantelshelf.  "Is  she  wearied 
o'  this  place,  think  ye?" 

"She's  got  the  promise  o'  a  rale  guid  lodger,  if 
she  tak's  a  hoose  in  Crossbill.  He's  a  frien'  o'  Mr. 
Burnside's." 

"I  see.  But  can  she  no'  get  a  guid  lodger  here?" 
Mr.  Caw  was  well  aware  that  Mrs.  Fergus  had  been 
doing  badly  since  Mr.  Burnside's  departure. 

"I  dinna  ken,"  said  John,  without  much  interest. 
"Is  that  a  new  book?"  he  inquired,  pointing  at  a  hang- 
ing shelf. 

"Ay.  It's  a'  about  wild  beasts.  I  got  it  for  yer- 
sel'.  When  ye  can  spare  the  time,  John,  I'll  read 
ye  some  o'  the  stories." 

"I'll  come  the  morn — if  it's  rainin'." 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     243 

Mr.  Caw  could  not  shake  off  his  depression.  Even 
the  boy  noticed  that  something  was  wrong,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  meal  he  said : 

"Are  ye  no'  weel?" 

Mr.  Caw  hastily  replied  that  he  had  never  felt  bet- 
ter. 

"Ye  look  awfu'  sorry,"  said  John. 

Just  then  the  tobacconist  was  called  to  the  receipt 
of  custom.  On  his  return  he  said : 

"I'm  maybe  feelin'  a  bit  low,  John.  But  we'll  no' 
speak  aboot  it.  Will  ye  be  gled  to  gang  to  Crossbill?" 

"Aw,  I'm  no'  heedin'." 

"I— I'll  miss  ye,  John." 

The  boy  said  nothing. 

"Of  course,  I  dinna  expect  you  to  miss  me,  though 
you  an'  me  ha'e  been  rael  guid  frien's.  .  .  .  But  I 
daursay  I'm  ower  auld  a  frien'  for  you.  Eh?  .  .  . 
It's  no'  to  be  expectit  that  you  could  like  me  as  weel 
as  I  like  you." 

"But  I  like  ye,"  said  John  uncomfortably.  "It's 
time  I  was  gaun  to  meet  Willie."  He  slid  from  his 
seat  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Ye  like  me?"  whispered  Mr.  Caw,  holding  it. 
"  'Deed,  John,  that's  guid  hearin'.  Pit  a'  the  bis- 
cuits in  yer  pooch.  ...  I  was  feart  ye  had  got  tired 
o'  yer  auld  frien'.  Ye  see,  laddie,  I  like  ye  rael  weel — 
better  nor  onybody,  I'm  thinkin'.  .  .  .  Noo,  awa'  to 
yer  play.  I'll  no'  detain  ye." 

John  hesitated. 

"If  it  was  rainin',"  he  mumbled,  "I  wud  stop  till 
ye  read  aboot  the  wild  beasts." 

"It'll  maybe  rain  the  morn,"  the  other  said,  and 
conducted  the  boy  to  the  door. 


244  KIDDIES 


Glasgow  folk  declared  that,  for  the  time  of  year,  they 
had  never  seen  such  a  long  spell  of  fine  weather. 

On  the  evening  of  the  ninth  dry  day  Mr.  Caw, 
garbed  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  which  he  had  donned 
in  spasms,  due  more  to  the  possibility  of  customers 
than  their  actuality,  might  have  been  observed  locking 
his  door  and  affixing  an  envelope  to  its  panel.  Ner- 
vous handwriting  on  the  envelope  proclaimed  that 
the  shop  would  be — 

"OPEN   SHORTLY." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  ringing  the  bell  of  Mrs. 
Fergus's  abode. 

The  widow  opened  the  door.  She  was  surprised  to 
see  him  on  a  week-day,  but  hospitably  invited  him  to 
enter,  leading  the  way  to  the  parlour,  which  was  still 
awaiting  a  lodger. 

"Tak'  a  sate,  Mr.  Caw,"  she  said,  wondering  un- 
easily what  had  brought  him. 

Mr.  Caw  seated  himself. 

"Lovely  weather,"  he  said,  with  an  effort. 

"It  is  that." 

"I  hope  ye're  weel,   Mistress  Fergus." 

"Thenk  ye,   I  canna  complain." 

"An'  yer  lassie?" 

"She's  fine,  thenk  ye." 

"An'— an'  John?" 

"Oh,  John's  oot  as  usual.  He's  fine.  I  doobt  he's 
a  bother  to  ye,  Mr.  Caw." 

"He  hasna  been  near  me  for  a  week.  But  he's 
never  a  bother.  He's  a  clever  laddie,"  continued  Mr. 
Caw  jerkily.  "Ye'll  be  rael  prood  o'  him  yet." 

Mrs.  Fergus  smiled. 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     245 

"John's  like  ither  weans — whiles  bad  and  whiles 
guid — but  I  doobt  he's  no'  clever.  He  hasna  been 
lang  at  the  schule." 

"Ah,  but  he's  clever!  Some  day  ye'll  be  for  sendin' 
him  to  the  University  to  be  a  doctor  or,  maybe,  a 
meenister." 

The  woman's  smile  became  tinged  with  bitterness. 

"I'll  be  sendin'  him  oot  to  earn  his  livin'  as  soon 
as  the  law'll  let  me." 

Mr.  Caw,  gazing  at  his  highly  polished  boots,  for- 
got that  they  pinched. 

"I  never  seen  a  mair  intelligent  boy,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice.  "When  I  read  stories  to  him  he  misses 
naething — an'  ye  should  hear  the  questions  he  askes. 
Oh,  I  think  John  should  get  a  chance  when  he  grows 
up  a  bit." 

"An'  d'ye  think  I  wudna  gi'e  John  a  chance — if 
I  could,  Mr.  Caw?" 

"I  ask  yer  pardon,  Mistress  Fergus.  I — I'm  no' 
clever  at  expressin'  ma  feelin's." 

Mr.  Caw,  leaning  forward,  pressed  his  clasped 
hands  bet\veen  his  knees.  His  beard,  which  he  had 
recently  trimmed,  wagged ;  but  no  sound  came  from 
his  lips. 

Mrs.  Fergus  reddened  and  looked  miserable. 

"I'm  no'  offended,  Mr.  Caw,"  she  murmured,  "but, 
if  ye  please,  we'll  no'  speak  aboot  it." 

The  man  pulled  himself  together  and  spoke  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  the  words  tumbling  over  one  another. 

"Mistress  Fergus,  I  maun  speak!  Things  is  lookin' 
weel  for  me  in  the  future;  things  is  already  improvin'. 
If — if  ye'll  marry  me,  I — I'll  dae  ma  best  for  you 
an" — an'  yer  bairns." 

"Oh,  na,  na!"  she  cried.  "I  couldna  marry  ony- 
body." 

And  there  was  a  dead  silence. 


246  KIDDIES 

"Could  ye  no'  conseeder  it?"  he  urged  at  last.  "I'm 
awfu'  easy  pleased." 

She  shook  her  head  and  put  her  hands  to  her  face. 

Mr.  Caw  got  up  and  walked  unevenly  to  the  door, 
where  he  halted. 

"Thenk  ye  for  no'  laughin'  at  me,"  he  said  gently, 
and  went  out. 

On  his  way  to  the  shop  he  met  the  boy. 

"Hullo!"  said  John. 

"Weel,  laddie.     Ha'e  ye  been  enjoyin'  yersel'?" 

"Fine!" 

"Are  ye  gaun  hame  noo?" 

"It's  no'  late  yet.  What  wey  did  ye  shut  yer  shop? 
I  was  comin'  to  hear  a  story." 

"Was  ye?    Will  ye  come  noo?" 

"Ay."  The  boy  put  his  hand  into  the  man's.  The 
next  moment  he  would  have  withdrawn  it,  lest  any  of 
his  fellows  should  see  and  chaff  him ;  but  the  man's 
grasp  tightened. 

"John,  I  wish  ye  wasna  gaun  to  leave  me." 

"I  wish  I  wasna." 

"Dae  ye?". 

"Ay,  I  dae!  I  wish  maw  could  get  a  guid  lodger 
here." 

Mr.  Caw  dropped  the  young  hand. 

"John,"  he  said,  "there's  a  penny.  Rin  an'  buy 
what  ye  like,  an'  wait  for  me  at  the  shop." 

On  opening  the  door  for  the  second  time,  Mrs. 
Fergus  gave  a  gasp. 

"Will  ye  ha'e  me  for  a  lodger?"  panted  Mr.  Caw. 
"I'll  be  oot  a'  day,  an'  I  can  eat  onything." 

"Oh,  but,  Mr.  Caw " 

"I  ken  what  ye're  thinkin',"  he  said  rapidly.  "But 
ye  micht  try  to  forget  what  I  said  a  wee  while  back. 
I — I'll  no'  say  I  didna  mean  it.  But  I'll  never  re- 


MR.  JOHN  CAW'S  LOVE  AFFAIR     247 

peat  it.  It — it's  deeficult  to  explain.  I've  a — a  great 
regaird  for  ye,  Mistress  Fergus — a  great  regaird — 
but  I  culdna  think  to  loss  John.  I — I  wud  dae  ony- 
thing  afore  I  wud  loss  John.  .  .  .  D'ye  see?"  He 
paused,  and  continued:  "I  was  certain  ye  wudna  ac- 
cep'  me,  but — I  was  kin'  o'  desperate.  D'ye  under- 
stan'?  .  .  .  Dinna  tak'  John  awa'  frae  me.  Ha'e  me 
for  yer  lodger,  in  Mr.  Burnside's  place,  an'  then  ye'll 
no'  ha'e  to  remove." 

His  anxiety  was  pitiful. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Fergus  laughed. 

"Oh,  I'm  no'  laughin'  at  you,  Mr.  Caw,"  she  said. 
"I'm  laughin'  at  masel'.  .  .  .  But  it's  an  awfu'  re- 
lief!" 

"What's  a  relief,  mistress?" 

"Ah,  weel,  I  think  we  best  no'  speak  aboot  it." 

"But  ye'll  gi'e  me  a  chance  to  be  yer  lodger!  Jist 
mention  yer  terms,  an' " 

"Mr.  Caw,"  said  the  woman  seriously,  "ye've  a  big, 
warm  heart.  But  think  it  ower  for  twa-three  days." 

"But  I  want  to  tell  John.  He's  waitin'  at  the  shop 
for  me,"  he  pleaded. 

Mrs.  Fergus  considered. 

"If  ye're  o'  the  same  mind  the  morn,  I'll  be  gled 
to  hear  frae  ye,  Mr.  Caw." 

Mr.  Caw  went  down  the  stone  stairs  like  a  young 
man. 

Presently  he  came  to  his  shop,  where  John  was 
waiting,  his  mouth  full. 

"Laddie,  hoo  wud  ye  like  if  I  was  yer  mither's 
lodger  an'  bided  in  your  hoose?" 

"That  wud  be  nae  fun,"  said  John,  with  frank  dis- 
may. "I  like  comin'  to  the  shop  best.  Are  ye  gaun 
to  be  oor  lodger?" 

"No'  if  ye  dinna  want  me."  The  tobacconist  opened 
the  door  and  led  the  way  into  the  darkish  shop.  "Ye 


248  KIDDIES 

can  come  here  every  day,"  he  added.  He  picked  up 
a  box  of  matches,  but  delayed  striking  a  light. 

"John,"  he  said,  a  little  huskily.  "Dae  ye  no'  like 
me  weel  enough  to  hae  me  in  yer  hoose?  Wud  ye 
rather  gang  awa'  an'  never  see  me  again ?  Eh,  laddie?" 

John  did  not  answer,  but  all  of  a  sudden  he  clutched 
the  man's  hand  and  pressed  his  face  against  the  man's 
sleeve. 


XVI 
THE  UGLY  UNCLE 


IN  these  days  it  would  seem  to  be  almost  inevitable 
that  a  teller  of  tales  should  allow  his  most  unpleasing 
personage  at  least  one  redeeming  feature.  Whether 
such  generosity  springs  from  charity,  or  is  but  one 
of  the  conventions  of  a  too-anxious-to-please  age,  mat- 
ters little — no  more,  indeed,  than  whether  the  re- 
deeming feature  itself  consists  of  a  pair  of  eyes  of 
peculiar  charm,  or  a  rare  smile  that  lightens  up  and 
transforms  the  whole  unlovely  visage.  The  present 
teller  frankly  admits  that  he  did  his  best  to  discover 
something  attractive  in  the  countenance  of  Mr.  God- 
frey Robb,  and  it  is  with  reluctance  that  he  records 
the  complete  failure  of  his  investigations. 

Mr.  Godfrey  Robb  must  have  been  born  ugly — one 
does  hear  of  beautiful  babies — and  time  arid  himself 
had  done  their  worst.  His  was  neither  a  fearsome  nor 
a  repulsive  ugliness — rather  was  it  that  miserable,  un- 
distinguished sort  which  evokes  far  more  contempt 
than  pity.  At  fifty  he  was  the  possessor  of  a  semi-bald 
head,  over-grown  eyebrows,  little  muddy  blue  eyes,  a 
lump  of  a  nose  with  a  reddish  tip,  a  sour-looking 
mouth,  and  a  quantity  of  untidy,  grizzled  whiskers 
and  beard.  Moreover,  he  was  disposed  towards  obes- 
ity. 

He  was  a  bachelor — which  is  not  saying  that  he 
could  not  have  found  a  wife  had  he  tried.  He  was  not 
249 


250  KIDDIES 

so  ugly  as  all  that.  He  dwelt  with  his  sister,  his 
senior  by  a  few  years,  in  a  pretty  villa  situated  on  a 
hillside  overlooking  an  unimportant  country  town. 
He  had  retired  from  a  fairly  successful  business  at  the 
age  of  thirty-two,  with  the  help  of  a  legacy,  and  with 
the  idea  of  becoming  an  author.  It  would  be  grossly 
unfair  to  infer  that  this  idea  constituted  his  whole 
stock-in-trade,  simply  because  he  never  got  beyond  the 
title  of  his  first  book.  We  do  not  know  how  he  may 
have  wrestled  and  struggled  in  the  privacy  of  that 
comfortable  room  still  known  as  the  "study."  To  be 
sure,  poverty  was  not  present  to  prod  him  on;  yet 
surely  ambition  must  have  beckoned,  for  a  season  at 
least.  But  to  the  naturally  sluggish  man  who  does  not 
need  to  work,  what  enemy  is  there  like  Ease? 

The  cosy  lounge-chair,  the  luxurious  couch,  the 
pleasant  pipe  or  cigar — these  were  his;  also  the  books 
of  other  authors,  which,  however,  he  neglected  more 
and  more  as  the  placid  years  slid  past.  In  an  amaz- 
ingly short  space  of  time  Godfrey  Robb  became  a 
confirmed  sluggard.  His  sister  grieved  in  secret,  but 
did  not  attempt  to  interfere.  She  was  industrious  in 
many  ways,  a  slave  to  the  petty  duties  of  life.  Ere 
long  she  ceased  to  deem  it  "awful"  that  her  brother 
should  be  content  to  spend  the  hours  between  break- 
fast and  early  dinner  in  his  chair,  with  nought  to 
occupy  his  attention  save  the  morning  paper  and  his 
pipe.  She  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he 
should  doze  on  the  couch  throughout  the  afternoon, 
and  she  would  probably  have  been  alarmed  had  he 
failed,  at  seven  p.m.,  to  leave  the  house  in  order  to 
spend  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  smoke-room  of  the 
Stag  Hotel,  where,  in  the  company  of  acquaintances, 
he  drank — not  more  than  he  could  carry,  but  more, 
certainly,  than  healthful  for  a  man  of  his  inactivity. 
Well,  it  was  life  so  far  as  he  knew  it.  He  neither 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  251 

wished  nor  did  any  one  any  harm,  and  he  did  nobody 
or  himself  any  good. 

On  an  afternoon  in  early  June  he  drowsed  as  usual 
on  the  couch.  The  atmosphere  of  the  study  was  stale 
and  stuffy,  for  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  open  the 
window.  He  was  entirely  comfortable  and  at  peace 
with  all  the  world. 

The  entrance  of  the  elderly  servant,  an  almost 
unprecedented  event  during  the  sacred  hour  of  siesta, 
might  have  been  part  of  his  hazy  dream,  so  little  did 
it  disturb  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  mumbled. 

"A  telegram,  sir!"  cried  the  servant,  who  was  in 
a  high  state  of  excitement.  Mr.  Robb  had  not  re- 
ceived a  telegram  within  her  recollection,  and  her 
length  of  service  under  his  sister  exceeded  ten  years. 

Godfrey  grunted  and  sat  up.  He  felt  annoyed  with 
his  sister,  who,  he  was  sure,  had  sent  the  telegram. 
She  might  have  delayed  its  despatch  a  couple  of  hours. 
Miss  Robb  had  travelled  to  London  the  previous  day 
to  bid  adieu  to  her  youngest  sister,  who,  with  her 
husband,  was  about  to  depart  on  a  long  sea  voyage 
for  the  benefit  of  the  latter's  health. 

"Putting  off  her  return  till  to-morrow,  I  suppose," 
Mr.  Robb  muttered,  clumsily  rending  the  envelope. 
Blinking,  he  read  the  message: 

"Coming  home  this  afternoon.  Bringing  Charlie. 
Prepare  spare  room.  Elizabeth." 

Mr.  Robb  stared.  "Who  the  mischief  is  Charlie?" 
he  stammered.  Then  he  handed  the  message  to  the 
servant.  "Make  what  you  can  of  it.  The  train  is 
due  at  six,  I  believe.  That's  all." 

The  servant  went  out,  and  he  lay  down  again. 
But  slumber  did  not  return. 

"Who  the  mischief  is  Charlie?" 


252  KIDDIES 


It  never  occurred  to  him  to  go  to  meet  his  sister  at 
the  station,  and  not  until  she  called  to  him  from  the 
hall  did  he  leave  his  couch,  prepared  to  growl  at 
having  had  to  wait  for  tea  a  whole  hour  beyond  the 
proper  time. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stood  there — a  frowsy,  un- 
dignified figure  of  middle  age.  "Well?"  he  demand- 
ed sulkily. 

Miss  Robb,  whose  excessive  primness  rendered  her 
plainer  than  she  might  otherwise  have  been,  moved  to 
one  side,  disclosing  a  little  boy,  who  appeared  to  have 
already  discovered  something  to  interest  him  in  the 
garden,  for  he  was  standing,  sailor  hat  in  hand,  gazing 
through  the  doorway  by  which  he  had  lately  entered. 
At  the  sight  of  him  the  man  drew  back  a  pace. 

"What  the  mischief "  he  began,   and   the  boy 

looked  round. 

"He  is  Mary's  son,"  said  Miss  Robb.  "He  has 
come  to  stay  with  us  for  a  few  weeks.  I'll  explain 
afterwards."  She  turned  to  the  boy.  "Charlie,  go 
forward  and  shake  hands  with  your  Uncle  Godfrey." 

The  little  boy  advanced  obediently,  but  half-way 
to  the  study  door  he  halted.  He  had  never  seen  a 
person  so  odd-looking  as  this  uncle  of  whom  he  had 
scarcely  even  heard. 

Mr.  Robb  did  not  move,  and  there  was  an  un- 
comfortable silence  till  the  lady  said,  sornev/hat  im- 
patiently: "Come,  come  child!  shake  hands  with 
your  Uncle  Godfrey." 

Astonishment  rather  than  fear  had  caused  the  halt, 
and  once  more  Charlie  advanced. 

His  small  hand  was  awkwardly  accepted  by  a  large 
and  flabby  one,  and  retained  for  a  mere  instant. 

Mr.  Robb  gave  a  sort  of  grunt,  which  may  have 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  253 

been  what  Charlie  expected,  for  the  boy  smiled  and 
looked  up  frankly  at  the  hairy  countenance. 

"H'm!  How  are  you?"  said  the  man,  with  an 
effort. 

"Quite   well,    thank   you,    and   how   are  you?" 

Whether  Mr.  Robb  would  have  replied  to  the  genial 
inquiry  is  doubtful.  His  sister's  interposition  relieved 
him  from  any  necessity  for  further  conversation. 

"Come  now,  Charlie,  and  make  yourself  tidy  for 
tea,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand. 

The  boy  turned  reluctantly.  He  had  caught  sight 
of  a  quaint  clock  on  the  study  mantelpiece,  which  he 
would  fain  have  inspected  at  closer  quarters. 

"Tell  what's-her-name  to  bring  my  tea  here,"  said 
Mr.  Robb,  and  closed  the  door. 

As  Charlie  went  upstairs  with  his  aunt  he  put  the 
question:  "But  w7hy  did  he  make  a  face  at  me  all 
the  time?" 

"His  face  is  as  God  made  it,"  she  replied,  with  cold 
gravity. 

"But  not  the  whiskers,"  said  Charlie  with  convic- 
tion. 

"Hush!"  Miss  Robb  was  shocked.  "Here  is  your 
room,"  she  went  on  presently.  "I  hope  you  will  be 
comfortable  and  orderly.  Sarah  is  bringing  up  your 
box.  She  will  help  you,  if  you  ask  her  politely." 

It  was  not  Miss  Robb's  fault  that  the  boy,  left  to 
himself,  was  overcome  by  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness, 
that  the  sunny  garden  beneath  his  window  became 
blurred  to  his  sight.  She  was  doing  her  best.  Her 
knowledge  of  children  was  confirmed  to  their  capacity 
for  mischief.  It  is  true  that  she  was  deeply  inter- 
ested in  certain  little  black  savages  half  the  world 
away;  but  it  was  their  souls  rather  than  their  hearts 
that  gave  her  concern.  In  placing  Charlie  in  charge 
of  the  elderly  servant,  Sarah,  a  pious  and  wholly 


254  KIDDIES 

stolid  person,  she  was  not  conscious  of  shirking  any 
responsibilities.  On  the  contrary,  the  arrangement  in- 
volved additions  to  her  own  household  labours,  al- 
ready manifold,  the  villa  being  her  secular  temple,  so 
to  speak. 

And  when  Charlie  came  to  the  tea-table,  a  very 
subdued  and  silent  little  fellow  compared  with  her 
travelling  companion  of  the  afternoon,  her  only  sen- 
sation was  one  of  relief,  for  she  had  dreaded  noisy 
talk  and  unseemly  behaviour.  But  his  young  spirit 
was  chilled  for  the  time  being — his  young  body  tired. 
So  when  the  sombre  meal  was  over,  he  took  both  to 
bed  without  demur,  and  there,  happily,  the  weariness 
of  the  flesh  soon  had  its  way. 

At  half  past  nine,  as  was  his  wont,  Mr.  Robb  re- 
turned from  the  Stag  Hotel  for  supper,  and  his  sister 
took  the  opportunity  to  explain  the  boy's  arrival. 

"He  was  to  have  stayed  with  the  Richardsons  dur- 
ing his  parents'  absence — it  was  all  arranged — but  at 
the  last  moment  Mary  had  a  message  saying  that  the 
Richardson  children  had  taken  measles.  I  could  hard- 
ly have  refused  when  Mary  asked  me  to  take  him  until 
the  Richardsons  were  clear  of  infection.  That  means 
weeks,  I  understand."  Miss  Robb  sighed,  and  took 
a  sip  of  extremely  weak  tea. 

Mr.  Robb,  his  mouth  full  of  Welsh-rarebit,  merely 
grunted. 

"I  hope  he  may  be  well-behaved,  and  not  make  a 
mess  of  the  house  and  garden  and  break  my  good 
things,"  she  continued. 

"I  hope  he  won't  make  a  noise,"  her  brother  re- 
marked, after  clearing  his  utterance  with  a  copious 
draught  of  stout.  "If  he  could  break  some  of  your 
drawing-room  trash  quietly  'twould  be  a  good  rid- 
dance." 

Miss  Robb  swallowed  her  indignation  at  this  rude 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  255 

reference  to  her  countless  beloved  knick-knacks,  whose 
dusting  occupied  her  about  five  hours  every  Tuesday, 
summer  and  winter. 

"I  shall  forbid  him  to  enter  the  drawing-room,"  she 
said,  almost  calmly.  "And,  of  course,  he  will  put  on 
his  slippers  before  he  enters  any  room." 

Mr.  Robb  grunted  again,  and  applied  himself  to 
what  remained  of  the  Welsh-rarebit. 

"I  suppose,"  said  his  sister,  with  some  asperity,  "I 
need  not  reckon  on  any  assistance  from  you  during  his 
stay." 

To  this  remark  she  received  a  look  which  said  as 
plainly  as  words:  "What  the  mischief  do  you  take 
me  for?" 

in 

Charlie  woke  betimes  renewed  in  the  joy  of  living. 
The  sun  shone,  and  when  he  looked  down  on  the 
garden  he  smiled  a  smile  of  anticipation.  He  was 
accustomed  to  receive  a  little  help  in  his  dressing,  but, 
after  opening  his  door  and  listening  for  a  minute  or 
so,  he  decided  to  go  ahead  with  the  operation  single- 
handed.  What  he  could  not  do  he  cheerfully  left 
undone.  There  were  several  quite  impossible  buttons, 
including  the  one  on  the  right  wrist  of  his  small 
shirt.  What  did  they  matter? 

As  he  went  downstairs  he  heard  sounds  in  the 
kitchen,  and  also  saw  that  the  front  door  stood  open. 
Had  he  been  at  home  he  would  have  visited  the 
kitchen  for  something  to  eat,  but  he  doubted  his  re- 
ception there,  and  went  straight — and  perhaps  stealth- 
ily— to  the  garden.  The  profusion  of  flowers  appealed 
to  him  more  than  the  evidences  of  the  abundant  atten- 
tion bestowed  upon  the  plots.  The  Robbs  were  no 
gardeners  themselves,  but  Miss  Robb,  who  desired 


256  KIDDIES 

orderliness  everywhere,  did  not  grudge  the  price  of 
hired  labour  on  this  half-acre  of  ground,  though,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  she  preferred  her  drawing-room  to 
any  garden  in  the  land. 

It  was  not  long  ere  Charlie,  to  his  high  satisfaction, 
came  upon  a  trowel  plunged  in  the  soil.  Withdrawing 
it  gladly,  he  looked  around  for  a  place  to  dig.  This 
was  not  so  easy  to  find;  but  at  last,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden,  he  discovered  a  spot  that  had  not,  ap- 
parently, been  planted  with  anything.  Squatting,  he 
began  to  make  a  hole  which  in  time  would  have  a 
tunnel  from  it  to  another  hole.  Charlie  was  a  town- 
bred  boy,  but  his  summer  stays  at  the  coast  and  in 
the  country  had  developed  a  taste  for  such  work  as 
now  lay  before  him.  He  was  warming  to  his  task 
when  hurried  footsteps  caused  him  to  pause  and  turn 
his  head. 

It  was  Sarah,  but  he  was  now  so  buoyantly  happy 
that  he  smiled  at  her,  saying:  "You  see,  I'm  going 
to  make  a  deep  pit  and  then " 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  panted  Sarah. 

His  face  fell — he  assured  her  that  there  was  nothing 
to  harm  where  he  was  working. 

"You'll  dirty  your  clothes,"  she  said. 

His  smile  came  back.  "Oh,  that  doesn't  matter. 
It's  only  my  old  jersey,  and " 

"Your  aunt  says  you  mustn't  touch  the  garden, 
Master  Charlie,  and  you'd  better  come  in  now;  your 
porridge  is  ready." 

"Am — am  I  not  to  get  digging  anywhere  at  all?" 

"That's  it.  Now  come  along  and  have  your  por- 
ridge. You'd  better  give  it  to  me."  She  indicated 
the  trowel. 

He  surrendered  it  quietly,  then  he  turned  away. 
"I — I  don't  care  for  p-porridge,  thank  you." 

"What!    Not  like  porridge!"  exclaimed  Sarah,  who 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  257 

would  have  resigned  her  situation  rather  than  eat 
the  stuff.  Her  annoyance,  however,  was  excusable, 
seeing  that  she  had  been  put  to  some  extra  trouble  that 
morning  to  make  the  porridge.  "But  all  little  boys 
ought  to  like  porridge."  (O  Wisdom,  what  absurdi- 
ties are  uttered  by  our  elders  in  thy  name!)  "Your 
aunt  will  be  displeased,"  she  went  on.  "Mind,  you 
mustn't  touch  anything  in  the  garden."  Suddenly  she 
remembered  her  kitchen  duties,  and,  admonishing  him 
to  come  indoors  the  moment  he  heard  the  bell,  hurried 
back  to  the  house. 

When  her  footsteps  had  ceased  to  sound  on  his  ear, 
Charlie  wiped  his  eyes  on  his  jersey-sleeve — he  had 
forgotten  his  handkerchief.  Then  he  turned  from  the 
scene  of  his  too  brief  labours,  and  walked  slowly  up 
the  garden.  In  a  shady  spot  he  encountered  a  belated 
frog,  which  interested  him  ere  it  disappeared  among 
some  heavy  growth.  Later,  he  spent  a  little  while 
watching  a  bee  take  his  toll  from  a  cluster  of  pink 
blossoms;  but  the  bee  also  disappeared.  There  were 
many  things  to  see  in  this  beautiful  garden,  but  there 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do.  He  was  feeling  very 
lonesome  and  disconsolate  when  the  breakfast-bell  rang. 

On  his  entrance  to  the  house  his  aunt  met  him,  and 
cried  out  in  horror  at  his  earthy  slippers.  He  ought 
not  to  have  gone  out  in  them.  He  must  change  them 
for  his  clean  shoes  at  once.  While  he  made  his  change, 
she  told  him  a  few  of  the  things  he  must  not  do 
in  the  future.  Thereafter  she  witnessed  him  wash 
his  hands,  and  then  they  went  into  the  dining-room. 

Mr.  Robb  was  already  at  table,  devouring  hot  toast 
and  fried  fish.  He  took  no  notice  of  the  boy  beyond 
emitting  a  grunt  when  the  former  in  response  to  his 
aunt's  command,  said  dutifully:  "Good  morning, 
Uncle  Godfrey." 

Miss  Robb   took  her  seat,   and,   after  giving  her 


258  KIDDIES 

brother  a  pointed  look,  which  he  ignored,  said  grace 
in  an  austere  voice.  Charlie,  balancing  himself  on 
highly  polished,  unyielding  leather,  closed  his  eyes 
and  prayed  God  to  take  away  the  plate  of  porridge 
set  before  him.  But  when  he  opened  his  eyes  the 
porridge  was  still  there,  and  he  perceived  that  there 
was  a  thick,  shiny  skin  on  its  surface. 

He  glanced  at  his  aunt,  hesitated,  and  took  up  his 
spoon,  then  hesitated  once  more. 

"Come,  eat  your  porridge,  Charlie,"  she  said,  not 
unkindly.  "You  know  you  ought  to  have  come  in  for 
it  when  Sarah  first  called  you." 

Charlie  touched  the  porridge  with  his  spoon.  But 
how  can  a  little  boy  eat  porridge  with  a  big,  sore  lump 
in  his  throat? 

"Don't  you  like  porridge?"  his  aunt  inquired. 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  looked  her  surprise.  "Don't  you  have  it  every 
morning  at  home?" 

He  shook  his  head  again.  "Home!" — he  bit  his 
lip  at  the  thought. 

"Well,  it  is  very  good  for  you,"  she  went  on.  "All 
little  boys  ought  to  like  porridge.  Eat  it  before  it 
gets  cold.  I  cannot  have  good  food " 

She  was  going  to  say  "wasted,"  when  her  brother 
rose  clumsily  from  his  place,  picked  up  the  plate  of 
porridge,  and  carried  it  to  the  sideboard.  Ere  she 
could  protest,  he  was  back  in  his  place,  and  presenting 
the  boy  with  a  slice  of  buttered  toast. 

"Like  fish?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

Charlie's  wet  gaze  of  gratitude  was  short-lived. 
Bristling  with  dignity,  his  aunt  rose,  marched  to  the 
sideboard,  and,  returning  with  the  porridge,  replaced 
it  before  him.  She  said: 

"Godfrey,  I  will  not  have  you  interfere.  Charlie, 
eat  up  your  porridge!"  and  went  back  to  her  seat. 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  259 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence,  broken  at  last 
by  a  half-suppressed  sob  from  the  boy. 

Something  like  a  grin  appeared  on  Mr.  Robb's 
countenance.  With  a  grunt  he  got  to  his  feet,  and 
possessed  himself  of  the  offending  nourishment.  With 
another  grunt,  he  stepped  deliberately  to  the  open  win- 
dow, and  flung  it  forth,  plate  and  all.  His  sister  sat 
still,  stupified.  He  came  back  to  his  place,  helped 
Charlie  to  a  goodly  portion  of  fish,  and  told  him, 
shortly,  to  "go  ahead." 

Miss  Robb  recovered  her  voice  if  not  her  wits. 
"Do  you  think  I  will  endure  such  treatment  in  my 
own  house?" 

"It's  my  house,"  he  answered  bluntly. 

Whereupon  she  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Robb  got  up  also  and  went  to  the  window. 
"Go  ahead!"  he  said  over  his  shoulder,  "or  your 
fish'll  be  cold,  too." 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Charlie  enjoyed  his  breakfast, 
but,  being  hungry,  he  ate  what  was  before  him  and 
finished  his  mug  of  milk.  He  wished  his  uncle  would 
say  something,  and  at  last  he  ventured  to  remark  to 
the  silent  figure  at  the  window: 

"I  expect  the  dicky-birds  will  like  it,"  he  said  softly, 
diffidently. 

With  a  grunt  that  might  have  meant  assent  or  the 
reverse,  the  figure  turned.  "Had  enough?"  it  asked. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  It — it  wras  very  nice  fish,  Uncle 
Godfrey." 

"Humph!"  muttered  Uncle  Godfrey,  and  went  off 
to  his  study. 

Charlie  moved  to  the  window,  and  remained  there 
until  Sarah  appeared  to  clear  away.  He  summoned 
courage  and  inquired: 

"Where  can  I  play,  please?" 


260  KIDDIES 

Sarah,  taken  aback  by  the  novel  question,  referred 
him  to  his  aunt. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  study  Miss  Robb  was  having  an 
interview  with  her  brother.  For  twenty  years  at 
least  he  had  not  interfered  with  her  in  any  way — she 
had  been  sole  director  of  all  the  household  arrange- 
ments. Now  she  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  protests. 

He  affected  to  read  the  morning  paper  until  the 
torrent  had  spent  itself.  Then  he  said  coolly:  "You 
seem  to  have  porridge  on  the  brain,  Elizabeth.  It's 
not  the  only  food.  Find  out  what  he  likes,  and  give 
him  it.  Also  find  out  what  he  wants  to  do,  and  let 
him  do  it." 

"Do  you  wish  to  quarrel " 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  don't  wish  to  do.  Now 
kindly  go  away." 

She  went — there  was  nothing  else  for  it.  She  had 
had  no  practice  in  argument  with  Godfrey. 

It  is  to  her  credit  that  she  did  not  permit  resentment 
to  affect  her  future  dealings  with  the  boy.  She  pro- 
vided the  food  he  preferred,  which,  after  all,  was  with 
few  exceptions  after  her  own  ideas.  She  could  not, 
however,  obey  her  brother's  second  injunction.  Death 
before  dirt  and  disorder  might  have  been  her  motto. 
Between  her  and  Sarah,  Charlie  was  subjected  to  an 
intermittent  bombardment  of  "don'ts." 

It  was  rather  a  dull  life  for  a  little  boy.  After 
breakfast  his  aunt,  if  she  were  not  too  busy,  read  him 
pious,  old-fashioned  tales  until  eleven  o'clock,  when 
he  accompanied  her  on  her  marketing  to  the  sleepy 
town  in  the  valley.  On  their  return  he  was  permitted, 
in  fine  weather,  to  walk  round  the  garden,  after 
promising  not  to  touch  anything.  Then  came  dinner, 
as  solemn  as  the  other  meals.  His  uncle  occasionally 
glanced  at  him,  but  rarely  spoke. 

The  fine  afternoons — the  wet  ones  were  too  dismal 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  261 

to  record — held  more  attraction  than  might  have  been 
expected.  Sometimes  his  aunt,  sometimes  Sarah,  con- 
ducted him  to  an  unfrequented  pine-wood  near  the 
house,  and  while  his  guardian  sat  and  sewed,  or 
read  an  improving  work,  he  would  be  left  pretty 
much  to  his  own  resources,  and  the  "don'ts"  would 
almost  cease  from  troubling. 

At  the  foot  of  a  tall  pine  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing 
he  set  about  building  a  "house"  of  twigs  and  moss 
and  cones  and  stray  pebbles.  In  the  beginning,  he 
made  friendly  requests  for  assistance — chiefly  for  com- 
panionship's sake — but  neither  Miss  Robb  nor  Sarah 
seemed  to  understand  that  the  matter  in  hand  was 
serious  in  its  intention;  and  when  he  informed  them 
that  a  frog  would  be  eager  to  reside  in  the  house  as 
soon  as  completed,  their  gloomy  scepticism  wounded 
his  feelings,  and  put  an  end  to  his  gentle  invitations. 

But  he  wrought,  happily  enough,  by  himself,  and 
day  by  day  the  "house"  became  more  elaborate  in 
construction,  more  extensive  in  accommodation.  This 
was,  indeed,  the  treat  of  the  day,  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  hour  for  going  home  often  found 
him  rebellious.  Yet  when  Miss  Robb  once  threatened 
to  come  no  more  to  the  wood,  his  grief  was  so  intense 
that  she  recanted  hastily,  and  merely  pleaded  with 
him  to  be  more  obedient  in  future. 

So  the  weeks  passed  away,  and  in  their  course 
doubtless  many  a  little  boy  had  much  less  to  be 
thankful  for  than  Charlie. 


rv 

It  was  the  custom  of  Miss  Robb  to  spend  every 
Thursday  evening  at  the  meeting  of  a  missionary 
circle  which  met  in  a  friend's  drawing-room.  A  num- 
ber of  ladies  drank  tea  together,  and  afterwards  en- 


262  KIDDIES 

gaged  in  sewing  articles  which  were  sold  at  periodic 
sales  of  work  in  aid  of  a  certain  overseas  mission. 
Miss  Robb  had  not  missed  a  meeting  for  many  years, 
and  there  was  no  reason  why  Charlie's  visit  should 
interfere  with  her  attendance.  Sarah  was  always  at 
hand  should  the  boy  require  attention  between  the 
hours  of  five  and  nine. 

On  the  fifth  Thursday  of  his  stay,  Sarah  had  seen 
him  to  bed  as  usual,  and  read  him  sundry  Old  Testa- 
ment verses  which  she  herself  did  not  half  compre- 
hend, and  was  about  to  bid  him  good  night,  adding 
the  usual  warning  not  to  put  the  clothes  over  his  head 
unless  he  wanted  to  be  suffocated  to  death. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  my  Uncle  Godfrey  to  come." 

Sarah,  greatly  astonished,  demurred.  She  was  one 
of  those  people  who  seem  to  believe  that  if  a  thing 
hasn't  happened  before,  it  ought  never  to  happen  at  all. 

But  Charlie  persisted,  and  at  last,  remarking  that 
Mr.  Robb  would  be  going  out  immediately,  she  went 
downstairs  with  the  request. 

Mr.  Robb  was  lifting  his  hat  from  the  stand,  and 
was  so  taken  aback  that  he  let  it  fall.  Presently  he 
went  slowly  upstairs. 

In  the  doorway  he  halted.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked 
uneasily. 

"Please  come  in,  Uncle  Godfrey.     Come  near!" 

Mr.  Robb  shuffled  forward.  "I  was  feeling  a  little 
lonely,"  the  boy  went  on.  "I  would  like  very  much 
if  you  would  sing  me  a  small  song,  Uncle  Godfrey." 

"God  bless  me!" 

"And  everybody,"  supplemented  Charlie.  "But  you 
can  say  your  prayers  afterwards.  I  would  like  a 
song  about  a  frog,  because  a  frog  is  going  to  live  in 
the  house  I've  built  in  the  wood,  when  it's  finished, 
you  know.  It's  nearly  finished  now." 

"Oh,  is  it?" 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE         .        263 

"Yes.     Now  sing  a  song." 

"But — but  I  can't  sing  songs,"  Mr.  Robb  stam- 
mered. 

"Not  even  the  one  about  a  froggie  would  a-wooing 
go?" 

Mr.  Robb  shook  his  head.    "I  can't." 

Charlie's  face  clouded,  then  lightened.  "Well,  tell 
me  a  story  instead."  He  looked  up  expectant. 

"I  can't  tell  stories,"  said  Mr.  Robb,  feeling  as 
though  a  rusted  door  were  being  prised  open  some- 
where. 

"Oh,  surely  you  can  tell  some  stories!  I  don't  mind 
if  they're  not  very  good,  Uncle  Godfrey.  Please  try." 

Once  more  the  uncomely  head  wagged  refusal. 

"Did  no  one  tell  you  stories  and  sing  songs  when 
you  were  a  little  boy?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  admitted  Mr.  Robb,  with  a  grunt, 
"but  I  don't  remember  any — just  now."  The  last  two 
words  were  inaudible. 

"Oh,  perhaps  if  you  waited  and  thought,  you  would 
remember  one."  Poor  Charlie !  He  did  not  want  to 
be  left  alone  that  evening. 

"No,  I  couldn't.  Perhaps" — the  man  hesitated — 
"another  time.  Now  you  ought  to  sleep."  He  turned 
towards  the  door. 

"But  stay — stay  and  talk  about — things." 

"I'm  no  good  at  talking." 

Charlie's  mouth  quivered,  but  he  made  one  more 
effort.  "Would  you — would  you  not  like  me  to  tell 
you  about  the  house  I  am  building  in  the  woods?" 

"Well,"  began  Mr.  Robb,  and  paused.  "Yes,"  he 
concluded,  in  a  shamefaced  manner. 

The  young  face  became  wreathed  in  smiles.  "Please 
sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  Uncle  Godfrey." 

Uncle  Godfrey  awkwardly  took  a  chair  at  the  win- 
dow, and  grunted. 


264  KIDDIES 

"Please  come  nearer — come  quite  near.  Nearer  yet. 
Yes,  that's  nice  and  near." 

Then  Charlie  began.  He  talked  for  half  an  hour — 
talked  till  his  voice  sounded  sleepy,  till  his  eyes  blinked. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  and  see  the  house,  Uncle 
Godfrey?"  he  asked  at  last,  lying  back  and  slipping 
under  the  clothes. 

The  man  nodded. 

"Shall  I  take  you  to-morrow?" 

"All  right!"  The  tone  was  a  trifle  gruff.  "Will 
you  sleep  now?" 

"Yes." 

The  man  rose  slowly — was  it  reluctantly? 

"Smooth  my  pillow  and  tuck  me  in,"  said  Charlie. 

Mr.  Robb  went  scarlet,  but  did  his  best  to  obey 
orders.  The  touch  of  the  boy's  hair  gave  him  a  queer 
feeling.  He  grunted  a  good  night. 

"A  kiss!"  said  Charlie. 

Mr.  Robb  stared  and  glanced  round  him.  Then, 
for  an  instant,  he  bent  over  the  lad.  Then  he  went 
quickly  from  the  room  and  downstairs,  looking  as 
though  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

At  the  hotel  that  night,  they  thought  him  even 
duller  than  usual. 


Charlie  never  quite  finished  his  house  in  the  wood, 
nor  did  he  take  his  Uncle  Godfrey  to  view  it.  The 
morning  after  their  conversation  the  weather  broke 
— the  wind  and  rain  lasted  for  three  days.  And  on 
the  fourth  day  it  was  time  for  Charlie  to  go  to  his 
London  relations,  who  had  taken  a  house  at  the  coast. 

Under  his  aunt's  escort,  he  went  gladly  in  the  train 
to  the  home  where  there  were  other  children,  and 
grown  ups  who  understood.  He  was  far  too  excited 


THE  UGLY  UNCLE  265 

when  he  bade  a  hasty  good-bye  to  his  Uncle  Godfrey 
to  notice  the  latter  slip  a  sovereign  into  the  pocket 
of  his  sailor  suit.  And  his  uncle  said  nothing  at  all — 
didn't  even  grunt. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came.  On  a 
Thursday  evening  in  September,  afraid  of  being  late 
for  her  circle  meeting,  Miss  Robb  was  hastening 
through  the  pine-wood,  which  happened  to  supply  a 
short  cut  to  her  friend's  house.  She  remembered  that 
she  had  not  been  in  the  wood  since  her  nephew's 
visit.  From  the  beaten  path  she  looked  between  the 
trees  in  the  direction  of  the  favourite  clearing.  The 
air  was  mild  and  still,  but  there  had  been  a  brisk  gale 
during  the  previous  night. 

Of  a  sudden  Miss  Robb  came  to  a  standstill.  There 
was  some  one  in  the  clearing — some  one  she  knew. 

An  uncouth  figure  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  a 
tall  pine.  With  patient,  careful  hands  that  seemed 
to  have  had  considerable  practice,  it  was  methodically 
repairing  the  "house"  which  had  suffered  damage  from 
the  gale.  Now  and  then  it  grunted. 

Miss  Robb  stumbled  to  the  nearest  tree,  and,  lean- 
ing against  it,  fumbled  for  her  handkerchief. 


XVII 
THE  LITTLE  TYRANT 

MRS.  JACKSON  leaned  from  the  window  of  the  rail- 
way carriage  and  smiled  upon  her  husband  and  child. 
"Now,  baby,"  she  said  playfully,  "take  care  of  daddy 
till  mother  comes  home."  Baby  showed  two  tiny 
teeth,  remarking,  "Ah!"  several  times,  after  which 
he  said  "Bah!"  as  if  he  meant  it. 

"Remember,  Lucy,"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  "that  the  last 
train  on  Saturday  for  this  part  of  the  world  leaves 
town  at  six-five.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  miss  it!" 

"When  did  I  ever  miss  a  train?"  cried  Mrs.  Jack- 
son. "Wave  handy,  baby!" 

The  husband  refrained  from  enumerating  the  trains 
missed,  to  his  own  confusion,  by  his  charming  wife. 

"Besides,  I've  my  lovely  birthday  watch,  Billy," 
she  continued  sweetly.  "It  is  bound  to  keep  me  right, 
for  I'm  always  looking  at  it!  And — oh,  by  the  bye,  as 
soon  as  you  get  back  to  the  cottage,  give  baby  to  Jane. 
Jane  promised  to  be  ready  to  take  him  a  walk.  And 
she  has  some  nice  cold  tongue  for  your  lunch.  Don't 
let  baby  worry  you,  but  if  you  can,  take  him  with  you 
on  the  grass  for  half  an  hour  in  the  afternoon,  it  will 

allow  Jane  to Oh,  goodness,  the  train  is  starting! 

Ta-ta,  baby!  Tell  Jane  to  mix  some  fresh  mustard. 
Wave  handy  to  mother!  Ta-ta,  darling.  There  are 
pickles  in  the  sideboard  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Jackson  said  much  more,  but  it  only  reached 
the  ears  of  the  porter  who  was  standing  further  up 
jhe  platform.  By  the  time  she  had  discovered  her 


THE  LITTLE  TYRANT  267 

handkerchief  to  wave  to  her  loved  ones,  the  train 
was  in  the  tunnel. 

Mr.  Jackson,  shouldering  his  son  and  heir,  left  the 
little  wayside  station  and  bent  his  steps  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  cottage  which  he  had  rented  for  August. 
It  was  beautifully  situated,  but  lonely,  the  village 
after  which  the  station  was  named  being  two  miles 
distant,  and  the  stationmaster's  house  the  only  other 
dwelling  in  the  near  neighbourhood.  But  the  Jack- 
sons  enjoyed  the  solitude.  Mr.  Jackson  had  been  over- 
worked in  the  city  for  nearly  two  years. 

Chattering  merrily  to  the  infant,  Mr.  Jackson  en- 
tered the  porch.  Although  he  had  taken  Saturday 
"off,"  he  had  a  parcel  of  business  books  to  look  over 
before  he  returned  to  town  early  on  Monday  morn- 
ing, and  he  therefore  decided  to  place  baby  in  Jane's 
charge  at  once,  and  get  his  task  done  by  lunch-time. 

"Jane!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Jane!"  he  called  again. 

A  groan  came  from  the  direction  of  the  kitchen. 
Thither  he  went  without  delay,  and  discovered  the 
maid  sitting  on  the  scullery  floor  in  a  peculiar  atti- 
tude, her  face  very  white. 

"Good  gracious!     What's  the  matter?" 

"Please,  sir,  I — I  fell  off  a  chair  and  I've  hurt  my 
foot,  and  I  can't  get  up.  I  think  it's  my  ankle." 

"Hard  lines!"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  sympathetically. 
"Wait,  and  I'll  help  you." 

He  hurried  into  the  sitting-room  and  set  baby  on 
the  floor,  propping  him  round  with  the  sofa  cushions. 
Baby  began  to  cry  lustily. 

"Back  in  a  minute,  old  man,"  said  baby's  father, 
and  returned  to  the  kitchen.  "Now,  Jane."  He  at- 
tempted to  raise  her. 

Jane  let  out  a  scream.    It  was  clearly  a  severe  sprain. 


268  KIDDIES 

"Holy  Moses!"  muttered  Mr.  Jackson,  "this  is 
awful!  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  he  said  aloud. 

Baby  was  howling  his  best.  Jackson  picked  up  the 
child  and  hurried  down  to  the  station. 

The  stationmaster  willingly  offered  his  help,  and 
ten  minutes  later  they  had  placed  the  sufferer  on  her 
bed,  while  baby  waked  all  the  echoes  of  the  sitting- 
room. 

"I'm  sorry  my  wife  went  away  in  the  same  train 
as  your  lady,"  said  the  stationmaster. 

"I'm  sorry  too,  but  we  must  do  our  best.  I  wish 
I  knew  something  about  sprains,"  said  Jackson. 

"The  porter  might  do  something.  I'll  whistle  him 
up.  He  once  attended  the  ambulance  class." 

The  porter  came,  eager  to  be  of  service,  but  the 
modest  Jane  declared  she  would  rather  have  her  foot 
cut  off  than  be  touched  by  a  strange  young  man.  No 
persuasion  could  induce  her  to  change  her  mind,  and 
at  last  Jackson,  who  may  be  forgiven  a  muttered  swear, 
dismissed  the  porter  with  an  apology  and  a  shilling. 

"Come  into  the  parlour,"  he  said  to  the  station- 
master.  "The  little  boy  does  not  like  being  left  to 
himself.  ...  Well,  I  suppose  it's  necessary  to  have 
a  doctor.  Where  is  the  nearest?" 

"Ingleton,  sir.  Seven  miles.  I  can  send  him  a 
wire  from  the  station;  he  has  a  motor  cycle." 

"That's  better,"  said  Jackson.  "A  thousand  thanks 
for  your  help." 

"Right,  sir,"  said  the  friendly  stationmaster.  "You 
don't  wish  to  wire  to  Mrs.  Jackson?" 

Jackson  hesitated.  "No,"  he  said  at  last.  "No 
use  spoiling  her  day  by  bringing  her  back  early.  I'll 
manage  somehow.  The  boy  ought  to  be  taking  a 
nap  shortly." 

The  stationmaster  departed,  proffering  any  further 
aid  that  might  be  required,  and  Jackson,  after  telling 


THE  LITTLE  TYRANT  269 

the  maid,  kindly  enough,  that  the  doctor  was  coming, 
sat  down  with  his  son  on  his  knee  at  the  parlour 
window.  Baby  was  disposed  to  be  unreasonable.  He 
now  desired  to  sit  on  the  floor;  soon  after  being 
placed  there  he  demanded  to  be  taken  up.  This 
happened  many  times. 

"I  suppose  it's  another  tooth  coming/'  the  father 
reflected,  as  he  wiped  his  brow.  The  weather  was 
exceedingly  warm. 

Presently  baby  began  to  wail  bitterly. 

"Mr.  Jackson!" 

"Good  Lord!  what  next?"  Billy  groaned,  and  went 
to  the  maid's  door. 

"I  think  baby  is  hungry,"  said  the  girl.  "I  made 
up  his  food  just  before  I  fell.  It's  in  a  little  pan  on 
the  kitchen  table,  and  it  has  just  got  to  be  warmed  and 
put  in  his  bottle.  Mrs.  Jackson  has  been  trying  him 
with  a  spoon,  but  you'll  be  safer  with  the  bottle,  sir." 

"Thanks.  I'd  forgotten  all  about  his  food.  How 
often  does  he  get  fed?" 

"Every    three   hours,   sir." 

"Oh,  Christmas!"  muttered  Jackson,  as  he  turned 
towards  the  kitchen. 

Baby  had  barely  settled  down  to  his  meal  when 
the  doctor  arrived.  He  was  an  elderly  bachelor, 
and  did  not  hide  his  amusement  at  Jackson's  predica- 
ment. 

"How  are  you  going  to  manage?"  he  asked,  after 
he  had  attended  to  Jane.  "When  does  Mrs.  Jack- 
son return?" 

"About  eight  o'clock." 

"And  it's  now  eleven-thirty.  You  might  get  some 
one  from  the  village,  though  the  annual  fair  is  on. 
If  I  can  do  anything " 

"Thanks,  doctor,  but  I'll  manage  somehow  till  my 
wife  comes  home." 


270  KIDDIES 

"Brave  man!     I'll  look  in  to-morrow." 

The  doctor  took  his  leave,  and  shortly  afterwards 
baby  drained  his  bottle. 

"Now,  old  man,  you're  going  to  have  a  nice  nap," 
said  Jackson,  cheerfully,  as  baby  rubbed  his  eyes. 

Baby  cried  sleepily  for  twenty  minutes  or  so,  but 
did  not  slumber. 

"Aha!"  said  Jackson,  with  an  inspiration,  "you 
want  that  black  doll  thing  to  chew.  I  wonder  where 
it  is.  Better  ask  Jane." 

"Missus  likes  it  to  be  boiled  every  morning,  sir, 
and  I  left  it  on  the  hob  just  afore  I  fell,"  said  Jane. 

Jackson  made  for  the  kitchen,  and  was  met  by  an 
appalling  smell.  There  was  a  pan  on  the  range  which 
contained  a  horrible,  evil-fuming  mess.  The  pan  had 
evidently  boiled  dry.  Jackson  pitched  it  out  of  the 
window. 

"Missus  had  another  one,  but  I  don't  know  where 
it  is,"  said  Jane,  weeping  with  sympathy. 

After  a  frantic  search  among  his  wife's  belongings 
he  discovered  the  desired  article  in  a  box  labelled 
"Voice  Jujubes."  He  presented  it  to  baby,  and  baby 
gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  fell  sound  asleep. 
Jackson  laid  the  child  in  the  cot,  gave  a  weary  glance 
at  the  floor  strewn  with  contents  of  drawers,  and 
left  the  room.  It  was  now  too  late  to  send  a  wire 
summoning  his  wife  by  the  afternoon  train,  otherwise 
he  would  have  sent  it. 

He  supplied  Jane  with  nourishment,  and  took  a 
little  himself.  He  relit  the  kitchen  fire,  which  had 
gone  out,  and  did  something  which  caused  the  smoke 
to  come  forth  in  clouds.  Jane  screeched  instructions, 
and  the  household  was  saved  from  suffocation.  Then 
he  made  up  two  bottles  for  baby,  according  to  Jane's 
directions.  That  done,  he  sat  down  to  get  cool.  Baby 
allowed  him  exactly  five  minutes  to  do  so. 


THE  LITTLE  TYRANT  271 

"He'll  stop  crying,"  said  Jane,  on  being  appealed 
to,  half  an  hour  later,  "if  you  take  him  out  in  his 
pram,  sir.  He  usually  goes  out  now,  and  comes  in 
for  a  bottle  at  three,  and  then  goes  out  again  till 
bedtime.  He  gets  his  bath  at  six." 

"He'll  have  to  wait  till  his  mother  comes  home," 
said  Jackson  shortly. 

But  the  outing  cheered  him  up.  Baby  was  as 
merry  as  could  be,  and  only  cried  when  his  father  ob- 
jected to  his  watch  being  thrown  on  the  road.  The 
three  o'clock  meal  was  duly  consumed,  and  the  after- 
noon passed  happily  till  baby  got  sleepy. 

"Good  biz!"  said  Jackson  to  himself.  "I'll  give 
him  the  other  bottle  now,  and  he'll  sleep  till  Lucy 
comes  back." 

Baby  went  to  sleep  readily  enough,  and  Jackson 
made  tea  for  the  maid  and  himself.  Afterwards  he 
lit  his  pipe  and  sat  down  in  the  porch  with  a  novel, 
to  while  away  the  time  till  eight  o'clock.  He  had 
not  managed  so  badly,  he  reflected,  and  he  looked 
forward,  not  without  pride,  to  relating  the  day's 
adventure  to  Lucy. 

At  six-thirty  he  took  in  the  milk,  and  felt  better 
pleased  with  himself  than  ever.  At  six-forty  the  sta- 
tionmaster  appeared  with  a  telegram. 

"Fearfully  sorry.  Missed  train.  Staying  with 
mother.  Hope  you  will  manage  till  Monday  morning. 
Love.  Lucy." 

"This,"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  with  a  great  effort  to 
speak  calmly,  "is  rather  a  crusher.  My  wife  can't 
be  here  till  Monday." 

The  stationmaster,  however,  was  determined  to  be 
helpful. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,   "there's  a  train  passes  here 


272  KIDDIES 

about  noon  on  Sunday,  and  I  believe  they  would  stop 


"You're  a  friend  in  need!"  exclaimed  Jackson;  "I'll 
write  out  a  wire  at  once."  And  he  did  so,  explaining 
the  situation  pretty  fully. 

"How  do  you  think  you'll  get  along  to-night,  sir?" 
inquired  the  sympathetic  official. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I'll  manage  somehow,"  said  Jack- 
son, with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh.  "The  doctor  is 
coming  to-morrow,  and  if  he  finds  me  dead  or  dotty, 
I've  no  doubt  he'll  inform  you.  I  don't  suppose  you 
know  a  woman  who  is  willing  to  come  and  tidy  up 
things  to-night  —  at  her  own  price  —  and  come  again  in 
the  morning?" 

"The  porter  is  going  to  the  village  now,  and  I'll 
tell  him  to  do  his  best.  But  it's  the  fair,  you  know, 
and  -  " 

"He  can  try,  anyway.     Thank  you." 

"No  thanks  required,  sir.  Good  evening,  and  good 
luck  to  you." 

Nothing  occurred  till  nine  o'clock,  when  the  porter 
called  to  declare  his  errand  fruitless. 

"Can't  be  helped,"  said  Jackson  to  himself,  with  a 
sigh.  "Must  manage  somehow.  Better  concoct  more 
bottles,  I  suppose.  But  how  the  dickens  I'm  going 
to  bathe  the  boy  I  don't  know."  He  went  into  the 
kitchen,  washed  some  dishes  and  broke  others. 

Billy  Jackson  was  a  mild-tempered  man,  but  for 
once  his  wrath  had  been  roused  against  his  helpmate. 

"Why  on  earth  couldn't  she  have  caught  the  train?" 
he  muttered.  "When  women  get  cackling  with  their 
relations,  they  wouldn't  notice  the  last  trump." 


At  nine-thirty  he  lifted  the  child  from  the  cot,  in- 
tending to  undress  him.    But  his  courage  failed. 


THE  LITTLE  TYRANT  273 

"I  daresay  I  could  take  his  clothes  off,  but  I'd 
never  get  them  on  again.  Don't  cry,  old  man.  I'll 
do  what  I  can  for  you,  but  you'll  have  to  do  without 
your  bath  to-night  and  sleep  in  your  clothes." 

He  paid  the  little  one  certain  necessary  attentions, 
clumsily,  no  doubt,  but  tenderly.  Baby  cried  drearily. 

"Cheer  up,  old  man.  Have  a  bottle.  What?  Not 
thirsty — I  mean  hungry?  All  right,  there's  no  hurry. 
Sorry  to  annoy  you." 

Baby  continued   crying. 

"Want  your  mother?  Eh?  I  suppose  that's  it. 
Thought  she  might  have  made  sure  of  the  train,  for 
your  sake!  Have  a  drink,  now?  No?  Perhaps  I 
had  better  consult  Jane." 

He  found  Jane  moaning  with  a  severe  headache, 
and  procured  her  a  couple  of  tabloids. 

"If  you  hush  him,  sir,  he'll  drop  off,  I  think,"  said 
the  girl.  "And  when  he's  almost  asleep  he'll  take 
his  bottle,  and  then  he'll  sleep  all  night.  I  wish  I 
could  help  you,  sir,  I  do,  indeed." 

"Don't  worry.  Try  to  go  to  sleep.  But — er — 
how  do  you  hush  him  exactly?" 

"Sing  to  him,  sir.     Not  loud,  sir." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  he  said,  rather  doubtfully.  "Well, 
good  night.  I  expect  your  mistress  will  be  back  to- 
morrow. Is  there  anything  cold  in  the  larder?" 

"Yes.     Cold  lamb,  sir." 

"Thank  goodness." 

Meantime  baby  had  been  sustaining  a  peevish  cry. 
Jackson  took  him  up  to  the  bedroom  and  began 
pacing  the  floor,  roughly  kicking  aside  the  things  with 
which  it  was  littered. 

"What  shall  I  sing,  old  man?"  he  asked,  as  if  he 
expected  the  infant  to  reply. 

Baby  cried  a  little  louder. 

"All  right,  all  right.     Here  goes." 


274  KIDDIES 

Jackson  was  not  musical,  and  one  tune  to  him  was 
very  like  another.  But  he  remembered  some  nursery 
rhymes  of  his  childhood,  one  or  two  of  his  wife's  baby 
songs,  the  refrains  of  "Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes"  and 
"Dolly  Gray,"  and  the  first  verse  of  the  National 
Anthem.  And  he  did  his  best.  By  eleven  o'clock 
baby's  complaint  had  sunk  to  a  mere  muttering,  and 
the  bottle,  which  had  been  kept  warm  under  the 
blankets,  was  applied  with  the  most  satisfactory  re- 
sults. Baby  finished  it  and  fell  asleep. 

Baby's  father  went  downstairs  for  something  to 
eat,  after  which  he  sought  the  easy-chair,  lit  his  pipe, 
and  dropped  into  a  doze. 

He  was  roused  by  the  voice  of  Jane,  and  went 
sleepily  towards  her  door. 

"Please,  sir,  baby's  been  crying  for  ages." 

He  bolted   upstairs. 

Baby  was  roaring  with  rage,  and  it  was  some  time 
ere  the  distracted  father's  efforts  were  rewarded.  Then, 
quite  suddenly  the  puckered  face  smoothed  and  beamed 
in  an  angelic  smile,  as  if  with  generous  pardon  for 
the  parent's  gross  neglect. 

"Hooray!"  cried  Jackson,  overjoyed.  "Now,  old 
man,  sit  there  and  play  with  daddy's  watch  till  daddy 
gets  into  bed." 

Daddy  got  into  bed  in  quick  time  to  the  tune  of 
baby's  chuckles. 

"Now,  old  man,  daddy  will  put  out  the  candle,  and 
we'll  go  to  sleep." 

Out  went  the  candle  and  out  came  a  burst  of  in- 
fantile disapproval.  Something  fell  with  a  crack  on 
the  floor. 

"Holy  Moses,  my  watch!"  groaned  Jackson,  and 
lit  the  candle  again. 

Baby  beamed. 

"Now,  my  boy,"  said  Jackson  firmly,  when  he  had 


THE  LITTLE  TYRANT  275 

recovered  his  watch,  which  had  stopped,  "you've  got 
to  go  to  sleep.  No  more  nonsense!"  Baby  chuc- 
kled. .  .  . 

Two  hours  later  Jackson  put  out  the  candle. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  lit  it  again.  Baby  was  moan- 
ing and  wriggling  in  obvious  discomfort.  Jackson 
was  touched. 

"Perhaps,  old  man,  I'd  better  take  off  your  clothes, 
after  all.  You  must  be  feeling  wretched.  I  wonder 
where  your  night  things  are."  He  found  them  at 
last,  and  a  fearful  struggle  ensued.  Baby  wanted 
clothes  off,  but  not  clothes  on.  Jackson  began  to  feel 
as  if  his  brain  were  giving  way.  At  last  he  got  on 
sufficient  garments,  some  upside  down,  including  a 
pelisse,  to  prevent  the  child's  catching  cold.  It  was 
now  daylight.  He  tried  more  singing.  But  baby 
desired  to  kick  and  play  and  chuckle,  and  did  so  till 
near  five  o'clock. 

Both  slept  till  seven,  when  baby  did  his  best  to  de- 
clare himself  ravenous.  Jackson  warmed  a  meal  over 
a  spirit  lamp,  which  he  discovered  after  vainly  con- 
suming the  heat  of  seven  tapers  and  a  bit  of  candle. 
The  meal  made  baby  as  bright  as  the  proverbial  but- 
ton— so  long  as  he  was  not  left  to  himself. 

Jackson,  giving  up  the  idea  of  making  tea,  pre- 
pared a  breakfast  of  cold  lamb  and  water.  He  had 
no  appetite,  and  felt  fagged  beyond  description.  He 
would  not  risk  changing  baby's  clothes  again.  How 
he  got  through  the  long  morning  he  could  never  after- 
wards tell. 

The  doctor  came  at  eleven,  just  as  baby,  after  a 
long  fit  of  fractiousness,  dropped  asleep. 

"I'm  half  crazy,"  said  Jackson,  when  they  had 
talked  a  little. 

"No  wonder.  Your  wife  will  be  dreadfully  cut  up 
about  losing  her  train  last  night." 


276  KIDDIES 

Jackson  suddenly  wondered  if  she  would,  really. 
She  had  lost  her  train  so  often  before.  In  his  weaned, 
topsy-turvy  brain  the  idea  came  into  being  that  she 
required  a  lesson.  He  imagined  he  saw  her  stepping 
from  the  train,  sweet,  fresh,  apologetically  smiling; 
he  imagined  her  making  prettily  exaggerated  pro- 
testations of  .sorrow  and  wild  promises  for  the  future. 
He  wondered  how  he  could  teach  her  a  lesson  out  of 
his  own  discomfort.  He  did  not  believe  she  had  suf- 
fered much  during  the  night  spent  at  her  mother's. 
Doubtless  he  misjudged  her  there,  but  he  was  too 
fagged  and  feverish  to  look  at  any  side  of  the  ques- 
tion save  his  own. 

"If  you  like  to  go  to  meet  Mrs.  Jackson,"  said  the 
doctor,  "I'll  stay  here  till  you  come  back.  I  daresay 
I  can  manage  baby  if  he  wakens.  The  train  is  due." 

"Thank  you,  but  I'll  take  baby  with  me.  Please 
wait.  I  may  want  to  see  you  presently." 

The  doctor  smiled  as  he  saw  the  father  and  son 
pass  the  window.  The  latter  looked  a  most  disrep- 
utable infant. 

"It'll  give  her  a  lesson,"  laughed  the  doctor. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Lucy  stepped  from  the  train,  smiling  a  little  shame- 
facedly, but  ready  with  a  real  wifely  greeting.  At 
sight  of  her  child,  however,  her  face  changed. 

In  consternation  she  began — "Oh,  Billy,  how — 
how " 

Mr.  Jackson  grinned  vacantly,  and  murmured — 

"How  doth  the   little  busy  bee 
Improve  the  shining  hour, 
And " 

"Billy!     What  has  happened  to  baby?"  she  cried. 
Her  husband  went  on  grinning.     "Baby?"  he  re- 
peated— 


THE  LITTLE  TYRANT  277 

"Why,  Baby,  Baby  Bunting 
Set  the  cat  a-hunting 
To  gather  honey  all  the  day, 
And  snapped  off " 

Mrs.  Jackson  stared  at  her  husband.  "What  are 
you  saying?  Don't  sing " 

"Sing  a  song  of  sixpence, 
A  rocket  full  of  pie, 
Four  and  twenty  blackbirds 
Coming  through  the " 

"Billy!     For  heaven's  sake,  hush!" 

\ 

"Hush-a-bye,  baby, 

On  the  tree  top! 
When " 

Lucy  was  now  pale.  "Give  me  baby,  and  come 
home  at  once,"  she  whispered  imploringly. 

"Come  home,  dear  father, 

Come  home  to  us  now, 
The  cow  jumped  over  the  clock, 

The  little  dog  laughed 
When  the  old  man  died, 

Hickory-dickory-dock !" 

She  could  not  get  him  to  stop.  Smiling  fatuously, 
he  walked  with  her  to  the  cottage,  humming  jumbled 
rhymes  all  the  way. 


"My  dear  madam,  there  is  no  need  to  distress  your- 
self," said  the  doctor  to  the  shivering  Lucy,  a  little 
later.  "I  have  given  your  husband  a  powder,  and 
after  a  good  sleep  he  will  be  himself  again.  The  try- 
ing experience  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours  on  an 


278  KIDDIES 

already  tired  brain  accounts  for  the  slight  temporary 
mental  derangement.  It  was  a  pity,"  added  the  doc- 
tor gravely,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye — "a  great  pity 
you  lost  the  train." 

"Ill  never  miss  a  train  again,"  sobbed  Lucy.     "I'll 
make  a  point  of  catching  the  one  before  it." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-ll,'50  (2554)444 


PR 


Bell  - 


6003         Kiddies. 
Bli06ki 


PR 
6003 


